Peppermint Schnapps
by maysecret
Summary: On a cold winter night, Neal needed something to warm him up. An order of peppermint schnapps got him a little bit more than he asked for.  Note: has been beta'd, no slash
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: All he wanted was a little peppermint schnapps. He got a little bit more than he asked for.**

**A/N: Hello! This is my first attempt at a White Collar fic that I started last November and it turned out a little bit bigger than I was expecting. Not only that, but the amazing enigma called Neal Caffrey was something that my poor brain could not compute so I had to summon a savior of a woman, the most amazing beta reader, Kiki Cabou! She deserves so much credit for making sure this story saw the light of day. Also, wanted to mention just how much my friends, especially jxnrs for listening to my mini rants and ravings about this story, and using them as a sounding board and guinea pigs. :)  
**

**Disclaimer: If I owned White Collar, I would make sure it played 24 episode seasons. *lightbulb goes off* I'd also own Neal. Which means, I could meet Matt Bomer. And that… hasn't happened yet. So… there ya go. Please don't sue; I don't think you want the lint that is in my wallet.**

**Spoilers: This takes place early season two.**

**Ratings: K+ for a few choice words along the way. References of violence. This is not a romance fic, there is no sex, slash, or otherwise. This is simply a borrowing of characters for an episode, and I will try to return them in one piece. :)**

The sun had set two hours ago, and sheets of icy rain had driven every sensible living thing indoors. Bundled up against nature's fury and finally on his way home after a day of mind-numbing paperwork at the FBI, Neal ducked into a little bar just as the wind got really bad. The green neon sign said Allegretto, and the ambiance had promise, so he looked around. The place was decently full but hardly crowded, which meant he could kill an hour people-watching, give things a chance to ease up outside, and head for June's. He slipped out of his overcoat and neatly folded it over a corner chair to stake his claim. For good measure, he set his fedora on the table. The drinks menu was a paper sheet pinned down under the glass tabletop, and it was hard to read in the dim light, so he glanced over at the bar, checking to see if they had a decent keep. A woman in a black apron was on duty, drying a cleaned glass as she scanned the crowd. Plunking it down on the counter, she grabbed a bottle of some micro-brew, popped the top and gracefully poured out a glassful of something amber-colored with a nice, thick head on it. Neal was impressed. It wasn't just the way she poured; it was the way she sauntered around behind the bar with that easy swing of her generous hips, like she knew her place, and this was it. She wasn't just some kid working her way through college. He wondered how long she'd been at this.

Attention caught and decision made, Neal strolled over to the marbled countertop to order a drink. He studied the woman as he approached. Her hair was pulled partway up, but the look was feminine enough to get the guys to tip well. Her white shirt was pressed military-style, not a wrinkle other than the wear of the night. His blue eyes scanned downward. Slacks, no skirt. With most girl tenders he got free drinks, no problem. Tonight, he'd probably pay full price.

"Evening," he said with a charming smile, his voice light.

"Hello," she responded. Her smile stopped just short of her steel gray eyes. "What can I do for you tonight?"

"Kinda need something to warm me up. Chilly out there." He rubbed his hands together as he watched her gaze flick outside before back at him.

She considered him for a moment. "Hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps should do the trick," she said. "I put chocolate shavings on the whipped cream. It's my signature drink in the winter. No fancy name, but it takes the chill out." The arch in her back eased slightly, the years of experience in customer service coming to the fore.

"Sounds delightful," Neal agreed. "Could you spare a little extra schnapps? Long day at the office." He sat down at the bar.

"Of course." She turned around and started to steam some milk. Neal glanced around the restaurant. One woman sat alone in the window, a few seats down from his claimed table, all wrapped up in her coat despite the warmth of the room. She kept checking her watch and was looking increasingly unhappy.

"Stood up," the bartender said.

Neal whipped around to look at her. "Scuse me?"

"Stood up. Her name's Angela, she's a regular, and she's been stood up. And as for you, mister, what kind of office job requires their employees to wear an ankle monitor?" There it was – a glimmer of a smile in those light-catching gray eyes.

"One where they try to keep me honest." He answered without really answering, and gauged her reaction. She seemed like the kind of girl who liked answers. "Aren't you a little young to be so good at this? You've gotta have at least five years under your belt, but you barely look over 23."

She cocked an eyebrow as she flicked a dollop of whipped cream onto his cocoa and added the shavings she'd promised. "I'm 26, but you're right, I have five years. I've been working here since I was 21. My uncle owns the place; he offered me a job. I liked the pay, I liked the people, and here I am." Her gaze bored into him without apology. She oozed confidence, not the self built charisma of a con artist, but the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted out of life.

"You still in school, then?" he asked as he took a sip of the warm liquid, noting the perfect balance of the flavors.

"No, I dropped out of college. It wasn't for me." The arch in her back was up again.

"Hey, sorry," Neal backpedaled. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Don't worry about it." She turned away from him, cleaning up the couple dishes she had dirtied.

Trying to restart the conversation, he looked back over at the few patrons. "Are any of them regulars?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Besides Angela?"

"Most of them." She answered, a lock of reddish hair slipping from her clip and falling into her face. Neal resisted the urge to point it out, or worse, reach across the bar and push it behind her ear. In all fairness, she was attractive, and she probably wouldn't want her hair anywhere near the drinks she was serving. All right, fine, she was ... pretty. There. He'd thought it. Milky Irish skin, speckled with fading freckles - summer souvenirs. She probably had a fiery temper to match that ruddy complexion, and her posture was one of proper upbringing. Just as he was trying to parse together where she might be from, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Excuse me." He got up from the stool, and walked towards the bathroom. "Hey, Peter."

"Hey, I'm just making sure you got home OK. It's nasty out there."

Neal was amused. "Uh huh. Did El make you call?"

Peter's voice got that hoarse sound when he tried to lie. "No. Why would she?"

"Because you worry, but you don't call."

Peter sighed on the other end, clearly throwing in the towel, and Neal smirked. "Alright, yes, she's a little worried. She wanted to make sure you have enough food and warm clothes. This ice storm is supposed to last awhile." He covered the mike, but Neal still heard him. "Yes, El, don't worry, I'm picking him up for work tomorrow. He's not going to walk." He got back on the mike and finished, "Anyway, Neal, bright and early tomorrow. Be ready."

"Always."

There was a click as the line went dead and Neal headed back out to the bar. Two guys were sitting at his place, even though there was plenty of room, and his cup had been moved over to the side. He covered his annoyance smoothly, as usual, and slid onto a cold stool.

"Hey, excuse me, miss. I don't think I got your name," he said as he finished the last bit of his drink.

She just smiled at him. "Care for another?" She was clearly distracted by waiting on the two men, and Neal sneaked a glance at them. They had menus in their hands, and seemed interested in the appetizers.

"Nah. I gotta stay awake until I get home, and you probably want to close up shop sometime tonight. What's the damage?"

"It's on the house. Call it the new customer special." She smiled at him, a real smile this time, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

He pulled a ten out of his wallet anyway. "Here's to good work. See you another night."

"See you," she said quietly, and her steel-colored eyes were shuttered.

Warm from the cocoa and pleasantly fizzy from the schnapps, Neal slid off the stool and put on his pea coat, tugging the collar closer to his neck and carefully winding his wool scarf. He nodded at her one last time, and she nodded back stiffly. He secured his fedora, pulled on his leather gloves, left the restaurant and stepped out into the icy night to hail a cab. It had stopped raining, but it was still ice cold as he scanned the street for a taxi, and even through the pleasant warmth coursing through his veins, he couldn't shake the bizarre feeling that leaving the restaurant right now was the wrong thing to do. Neal had learned to never doubt his gut, but he ignored the faint feeling until he reached June's, when the nagging, vaporous fear suddenly condensed into something very cold and very real in his stomach.

Just as he was about to use his key and let himself in, he realized what he'd missed, and what was making him nervous. The bartender had seemed stiff when he left. Unusual, given that she was starting to open up around him. Those two men had come in and taken his seat, which, taken by itself was just rude, but paired with the bulge he'd seen in one of their pockets ... something was up. Something was very wrong, and he had to get back there. His taxi was starting to peel away, but he flagged it down before it got very far, and to the slight amusement of the driver, he ordered to be taken back to Allegretto.

Peter sat on the couch, wrapped in his wife's arms, watching the fire crackle and pop away the cold, long day at the office. Paperwork was never fun, and he seemed to have more of it these days, especially since Caffrey had started partnering with him.

"What's bugging you?" Elizabeth said.

"Nothing. Just tired."

"That's new. Neal's not skirting danger for once?"

"No. I guess that's what has me worried. But don't you worry, I'm going to accept this peace and quiet as a reprieve." He kissed her head, and then yelped as his phone went off loudly in his pocket. Satchmo started barking as El leaned back. "It's Neal. Hello? Satchmo, shush."

The voice on the other end was breathless and scared. "Peter, you gotta come. There's so much blood."

Peter's heart leaped into his throat, but he kept calm. "Where are you?"

"I'm..." There was a crackle on the other end. "I'm at the ... damn." Neal's voice was shaking.

Peter hadn't heard him this upset since Kate. "Never mind. I'll track your anklet."

"I'm calling 911. Get over here as fast as you can."

The line went dead, and Peter shot up from the couch. "El, I gotta go. Something's happened to Neal. Where's the computer?"

"Over on the dining table. What happened?"

"I don't know," Peter answered as he opened his trusty laptop and moved the mouse around to wake it up. He double clicked on one of the desktop shortcuts and immediately a map came up. He saw Neal's little flashing light. "All right. I don't think this involved Bureau business, but..."

"Lock the doors. I know." She smiled tightly. "Bundle up tight and be careful on the road, okay? It's slippery out there."

Peter pulled up to the scene about fifteen minutes later. Red flashing lights from a few emergency vehicles lit up the area as he scanned for Neal. He finally spotted his CI attempting to climb into the back of an ambulance.

"Neal."

The young man spun around. "Peter! Thank God you're here. I can't..." Peter had only seen this man without his mask in place a few times. Usually, the word "Kate" got it off, but it seemed something else was in play right now.

"What happened?"

"I gotta ride with her. She's…"

"We'll follow. I've got sirens. Come on, I need a debriefing right now." He didn't mean to snap so hard, but it got Neal's attention. "Get in the car. Let's go." Neal climbed in obediently.

Peter hit the sirens and they followed the ambulance as it sped through the streets.

"I didn't do anything. Illegal that is," Neal said after about a minute of silence. "I was freezing and I stopped for a hot drink to warm up." His mask had reengaged. "I went up to the bar to order and I chatted a little bit with the bartender, because she was nice, and then you called, so I stepped away. When I came back, there were these two guys sitting there. One of them had a bulge in his pocket, but I thought it was a scarf. I left, but something kept nagging at me, so I took a taxi and came back. As I was walking up the street, I saw the two guys drag the bartender into an alley. She kicked one of them in the shin, and the other pulled a gun out and shot her a couple times point blank in the chest. They both ran, and I called you and 911."

"Ok, so this has nothing to do with Kate?"

Neal didn't even have the energy to get angry at Peter's assumption. He just shook his head. "No. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Peter believed the kid; he was too shook up to lie. At least, Peter hoped that was the case. He pulled into the hospital parking lot; in the course of listening to Neal and piecing together the situation, they'd fallen well behind the ambulance. Neal bolted from the car and ran in. Peter let him go and got out at a more sedate pace to follow him into the ER. He knew at least some of this behavior was coming from guilt over Kate's death ... he just didn't know what to do about it. Following Neal, he walked up to the triage nurse, a middle-aged woman more interested in her computer screen than the two people in front of her.

Peter got her attention. "Excuse me. We're here about the GSW that just arrived. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI."

She looked over at the badge, then back at him. "You go right on in sir, but Twitchy here stays in the waiting room."

"Alright," Peter agreed calmly, and then turned to speak to Neal, who had apparently overheard the nurse's description of him. He wasn't pleased, if the determined stare and clenched jaw were any indication, and he opened his mouth to protest. Peter cut him off at the pass. "No. Stay here, and let me find some stuff out. You can't see her anyway, not until she's out of surgery."

His answer was nothing more than a stare from the young con man. Shaking his head, he chided Neal, "You can't have your way all the time."

"But…"

"No." He held a finger up. "Forget it. Stay here. I'll be back with news as soon as I have some. Meantime, have a seat and read a magazine." Peter turned and went for the ER doors. The nurse buzzed him in and he left a very distraught Neal behind.

**A/N: this will be posted every other day as I have some last couple edits to do on this story. I will mention that is not a hard fast rule, and that reviews do spawn excitement for the nervous author sitting here. Thank you for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N I failed to mention a couple things in the first chapter. It will be added for those newcomers to the story. **

**Spoilers: This takes place early season two.**

**Ratings: K+ for a few choice words along the way. References of violence. This is not a romance fic, there is no sex, slash, or otherwise. This is simply a borrowing of characters for an episode, and I will try to return them in one piece. :)**

**And last but not least! Thank you everyone for the reviews. I was getting worried as half the day had passed with no email notifications from FFN. Then I logged on a low and behold! Reviews! Story Alerts! Story Favs! It made my day, made me giggle, and made me realize just how addicted to reviews I really am. But also as a warning that you might not get notified that this story has been updated. And with that being said, Chapter 2**

Neal stayed in the waiting room, but his mind wouldn't settle enough for him to read a magazine, and his legs wouldn't settle enough for him to sit down. Pacing, he fingered his cell in his pocket. The nurse shot him a dirty look as he passed by her desk for the thousandth time. He didn't even look at her; he could tell by the clicks of her mouse that she was just playing solitaire on the computer. The waiting room held a small smattering of people. A man in his twenties with a wrapped and iced elbow had claimed a corner. His iPod was cranked up to deaf by thirty and he was reading a trashy magazine. A middle-aged man sat next to his elderly father, who was wheezing into a handkerchief. An apologetic mother was bouncing a little boy on her knee; the child had flushed cheeks and a runny nose, and couldn't have been more than two years old. He kept yelling "a-BAH!" at intervals, and everyone else was giving them a pretty wide berth.

Neal walked over to a corner and pulled out his cell phone. There was something he could do, he realized. Dialing quickly, he set a text message saying, "An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with fools."

An instant reply, "Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."

He texted back: "Call me."

Seconds later a call came in, and Neal put his phone up to his ear. "Hey, sweetie."

"'Sweetie?' Where are you?" Mozzie was slightly more incensed and excited than normal; "sweetie" was their code for "something is seriously wrong."

"About that book deal? Dr. Morgan won't put his name on it." - which was code for, "Need a History, At the Hospital, Need an ID on Someone."

"And you couldn't wait until morning to call me. You know, patience is the companion of wisdom." - "Are You Okay?"

"No." - ... "No."

Mozzie sighed, giving up on the code and allowing Neal the option of yes/no. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Thank God. Is the Suit with you?"

"Yes."

"Is he on the case?"

"Not yet."

"All right. Who am I finding?"

"The bartender at the Allegretto," Neal said quietly. "Need an address?"

"Never." With that, the line went dead. Neal smiled and dropped the phone into his pocket. Feeling better at having something in play, he finally managed to sit down and wait for Peter.

Xxx

"Listen, my CI is not involved in this case, other than being an eye witness to an attempted murder," Peter growled as he stalked after the detective. He had been debating with her in the hallway for the past few minutes; she was on her way to go interrogate Neal.

"Doesn't matter what you think of him. He's still the prime suspect."

"So what is this? Guilty until proven innocent?"

She turned around so quickly that Peter almost walked into her. He skidded to a stop as she poked her finger into his chest. "You know as well as I do that perps tend to return to the scene of a crime. Now, let me do my job." Her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, the badge on her hip was polished to a shine, and she had crow's feet from years of narrowing her eyes at anyone who tried to play her for a fool. No nonsense, no bull, and definitely no guff. Probably one of the reasons crime was down, but at the moment she was barking up the wrong tree and it was pissing Peter off.

"So being a highly regarded consultant for the feds isn't good enough for you?"

"He's got a past record," she snapped as she turned back toward the ER waiting room.

"Yeah, for fraud. He's never even been associated with violent crimes."

"First time for everything," was her response as she shoved through the door. Peter shook his head, wondering what the woman was going to make of Neal. He followed through the door, hoping Neal didn't try to charm her. They found him a little ways up the blindingly white hallway, sitting on one of the hospital benches and staring at the opposite wall. He still looked a little dazed from his experience at the scene.

"Caffrey," she barked. That got his attention. He jumped slightly and looked up. Peter stood behind her, shaking his head 'no' and mouthing, 'Don't flirt.' Neal's eyes lit up with understanding as he addressed the lead detective.

"Yes. I'm Neal Caffrey. And you are?" He held out his hand in the customary manner, but Peter grimaced as Neal plastered on that trademark grin. This was not going to end well, he could feel it.

The detective ignored the proffered hand and pulled out a notepad and pen. "I'm Detective Tamara Marcelo, NYPD. I need to take your statement. Now, you said you saw two armed men drag the victim out and shoot her in the alley. What time was that?"

Neal didn't falter his charm any, just let the hand drop down to his side. "Actually, just to be clear, I only saw that one of the men was armed."

"Duly noted." She scribbled that down. "Time?" It was more a demand than a question.

"Probably about nine o'clock. I couldn't have been at the restaurant for more than half an hour."

"Okay. Let's start from you at the restaurant. What happened?"

"Well, she made me her signature drink ... delicious, by the way -"

"Neal." Peter shook his head 'no' to emphasize his point.

Neal pursed his lips. "We made small talk, then I took a phone call ... from him, actually," Neal pointed at Peter, "And when I got back to the counter, there were two men sitting there. They'd pushed my drink aside and one of them had taken my seat. The bartender looked busy with them, so I finished my drink, put on my coat, and took off."

"And then ... you returned."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Neal shrugged. "I honestly don't know. Something just kept screaming at me to go back, because something was wrong."

Marcelo kept questioning him and scribbling in shorthand. "Do you have any idea why they dragged her into the alley while she was on shift? When she would be missed?"

"Not a clue. I do know that she seemed nervous when I left." His face remained impassive, but his slight shift of weight betrayed his feelings of guilt to Peter plain as day.

"And you'd never met her before?" Her brown eyes bored into Neal, causing Peter to clench his jaw.

"Never."

The detective's face twitched; this wasn't the answer she wanted. "And you have absolutely no ties whatsoever with her? Nothing from your past?"

"Why would my past have anything to do with stopping at a random restaurant and getting a drink on a cold winter night?" He asked the question innocently enough that she couldn't call him on evading hers. "I work as a consultant for the FBI, and I swear to you, I've never seen her before. There would be no reason to kill her because of me."

"What about a contracted hit? Would you know anything about that?"

Peter watched as Neal's face twitched slightly, knowing what was coming next.

His voice dipped. "I don't deal with that kind of thing. I'm not an assassin."

Her face turned a shade darker than her already olive brown skin.

"Why don't we go down to the station and see if we can get a sketch of the suspect before any more feathers get ruffled." Peter pushed past the detective and grabbed Neal around the shoulders as an encouragement to lead him away from a brewing disaster, but Neal shrugged him off and stalked from the ER by himself.

Peter shot a look over at Detective Marcelo. "Meet you there?"

"Make sure he's with you when you arrive." The nurse buzzed her in and she scowled at Peter before walking through the door.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Peter sighed as he walked out the automatic doors. The sidewalk was icy and treacherous; he stepped carefully and glanced ahead at the sedan. Neal stood next to it, bundled up and staring off into the distance.

"Hey, it's unlocked," he called out as he approached. "Never had a chance to lock it. I know, it's stupid with all these criminals loose in Manhattan. Next thing you know, there'll be one riding shotgun."

Neal didn't acknowledge the joke. He just murmured, "Didn't even notice."

The FBI agent's face crinkled with concern as he lowered himself into the driver's seat. Neal never missed such an obvious detail. He looked over at his partner, who was clasping his hands and blowing into them for heat.

"Hey, you can't blame yourself for this."

"I missed the gun, Peter." He looked away out the passenger window, his voice soft.

"You had no reason to be suspicious."

"I should have been. I knew she was nervous; it was literally one step from the emotion to figuring out the reason, and I didn't take it." He started shaking his head in disgust. "Reading people is what I do, Peter. I screwed up, and she might die." His hands clenched into fists.

"Hey, maybe being around me is getting you soft." Peter tried to be supportive, even though he knew it was pointless to reassure Neal when the younger man was like this; the focused look in his eye meant that he was rewinding the night's events over and over. He had obsessive tendencies, no doubt, and he clearly wasn't over Kate yet.

"No. She tried to keep me there longer by offering me another drink. Me, a complete stranger. She was scared, Peter."

"Hey, their job is to offer you another drink. It's how they make money. And at least you came back, otherwise she would've probably died in the alleyway alone. With this weather, no one would be walking by, let alone a good Samaritan."

Neal looked over at him, eyes betraying the calm he had been pasting on his face since the ER. "There was so much blood."

His haunted stare was recalling more than the sight of the victim. Neal huffed on his hands again, and then Peter realized that he didn't have any gloves on. Looking over, he saw that Neal's coat was wet, and the felt material was covered in a dark, sticky substance.

"We need to get you changed," Peter said. "I'm sure they could wait a few minutes at the station."

"No, I'm fine. Let's get this over with." Neal caught Peter's gaze again. "Will you investigate this?"

"I don't know if I can. There's no reason for FBI to take the case."

"I want you to solve this, Peter. That detective…" He trailed off, but Peter understood.

"You don't have anything to worry about. The taxi driver's statement and the ticket stubs are enough for a solid alibi. The driver was there, right?"

"For a couple of seconds. I paid him when I hopped out. I was almost to the door when I heard the scuffle. I don't know if the cab was there when they dragged her around the corner, but there was no time for me to go in, drag her out and shoot her."

"And did you get help from inside immediately?"

Neal nodded heavily. "As soon as I hung up with you, I pounded on the door. I ran back to her, put pressure on the wounds, and someone came running out."

"Like I said, you'll be fine."

By the time he was done at the police station, it was almost 1:30 and he was exhausted. He dozed off twice on the ride home, a phenomenal feat considering Peter's driving, and barely made it in the front door. After fighting with his keys and getting inside out of the cold, he staggered up the stairs to his apartment. The blood-stained coat was probably ruined, and he didn't have the energy to deal with it right now, so he shrugged it off and set it neatly on the kitchen trash can. The fedora was tossed onto the table, and he collapsed onto his couch.

"You don't even turn the light on?" Moz grouched from the corner of the room.

Neal sat straight up. "Mozzie, what are you ... why are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding. Merely enjoying the absence of light."

Neal ignored that. He wasn't up for a round of Deal with the Weirdness right now. "What did you find?"

"Not much. She doesn't even have a parking ticket. You should be impressed with what I've got." Moz cleared his throat. "Her name is Shannon Gregory. She's 26, grew up in Maine. Both parents were killed five years ago in a car accident. Only living relative is the uncle who owns the restaurant. He currently lives in Arizona due to health issues and the terrible New York winters."

"Can't blame the guy." Neal rubbed his arms unconsciously.

"Don't interrupt. She also has a younger brother ... one that she hasn't had contact with since he went to prison three years ago. He's been charged with numerous misdemeanors, but only convicted of one. And get this, her father was a suit."

"FBI?"

"Yep. He retired early; line of duty injury. Before that, he commuted so that his family could have a home in the country. And Shannon was on the fast track to life with a badge until she dropped out of college in 2005, right after her parents died. She used the money her folks left her, bought herself a nice apartment in Brooklyn, and then, 2006, poof. She falls off the face of the earth. I can't find anything on her since then. Not even a credit report."

"So, she doesn't have a record?"

"I just said, not even a parking ticket."

"So is there _any _reason you can think of for her getting shot?"

Moz shrugged. "The cure for boredom is curiosity. Maybe she wanted to see what life was like on the other side?"

"Maybe. Any financials?"

"By that question, I assume you're asking if she was hurting for money, and I can tell you, my friend, that in fact she is not. Owns her parents' home up in Maine, rarely goes there, paid cash for her apartment in Brooklyn, owns that free and clear. So we'll have to look in a different direction."

Neal nodded and looked at Moz like he was expecting to continue discussing this right now, despite his rumpled appearance and bleary eyes.

"Tomorrow," Moz added slowly, making his point. "Say, after 10 AM, and definitely after a shower and breakfast. You look terrible. Get some rest."

Neal managed a little smile. "Thanks again, Moz."

"Hey, it's better than Google." Mozzie chuckled nasally as he let himself out.

Neal looked in the direction of his bed. It was literally ten feet away, and it was too far. Too exhausted to even throw something over himself to keep warm, he flopped back down on the couch and closed his eyes. His body wanted to rest, but his mind kept going. It raced through possibilities and data, and sorted information and analyzed observations for a good fifteen minutes before he managed to shut off his brain's task manager, power down, and get some sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you everyone so much for the kind reviews! I'm glad you are all enjoying it so much! *squeals***

The man hid in the shadow of the apartment building, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hoping that nobody with a badge would come walking by. He had been waiting for close to an hour for the doorman to step out for a smoke, but if he waited any longer, the sun would rise and the cops would have a warrant to search her apartment. He had to get in there first. Moz shook his head and smiled; honestly, the things he did for Neal. B&E was hardly his interest, and certainly not something he needed to be doing, but he had to do this for Neal, and also he had to satisfy his own curiosity about what this girl was hiding.

He examined his shoes and tried to look inconspicuous as he sighed and waited for his chance. There were advantages to perfect recall. For instance, Miss Shannon Gregory's apartment number had been stamped into his temporal lobe the moment he took it down. He'd die an old man with her address rattling around in his skull somewhere. In fact, if she didn't make it or decided to move, he could very easily put Wednesday here. It was a quiet neighborhood, great view of the skyline, right around the corner from the promenade. The only issue he had with it was that the doorman refused to leave his post. Moz had hoped the guy was a smoker, or something else that would force him to step away, but so far, no luck. He really hated going into anything half-cocked, but he had no time for perfecting his route. Besides, playing things by ear kept certain mental muscles in shape.

He shrugged deeper into his winter coat, reconstructing his plan for gaining entrance. Fingering the digital camera and lock picks in one pocket, he pulled out a small handset that looked like a two-way radio. Slipping away, he skulked over to the end of a long line of parked cars. He flipped the power dial on, punched a series of buttons, set it on the bumper, and disappeared back into the night. A handful of seconds later, the entire line of cars started carrying on at once, wailing their alarms into the night. One car alarm? Everyday occurrence. Six or seven? Something was up. As much as Mozzie didn't want to raise anybody's hackles, or worse, alert them that something fishy going on, he needed to expedite this. As soon as the doorman pushed through the door and stepped beyond the awning, cursing and wondering what the hell was going on, Mozzie slipped into the building. He hurried through the foyer and rounded the bend well before the doorman returned, and quickly found the stairs to the second floor.

He slowly made his way up the stairs, listening for disturbances above or below him, but when he reached the second floor, there wasn't a soul in sight. He was in the clear. White walls and accent mirrors greeted him, and while the materials were only mildly impressive, he appreciated the simplicity of the design. Apartment 2B, as it turned out, was located right next to the stair well. Smart girl, he thought. Simple, tasteful building that most people would pass right by without a second thought, and she also had an escape plan in place just in case anything went wrong. At least, that was what he assumed. He hoped he wasn't giving her too much credit.

The main lock was child's play, but the two deadbolts she'd had installed took more time. Mozzie had years of experience and a lot of skill, though, and he had her door swinging open in under two minutes. He stepped into her humble abode and quickly locked the door behind him. Flicking a light on, he scanned the apartment.

The layout was simple and the décor modest as well. On the left just past the coat closet was a closed door that presumably led to the bedroom. Along the same wall was a doorway that led into a kitchen which he assumed had been built by gnomes, or tree elves or something, because there was barely enough room to fit one person in there and hardly any space to cook. The counter space doubled as a bar, which by the looks of a dusty oak table, was where Ms. Gregory ate. The wall opened up into a small living room that held a couch, a treadmill, and a desk with scattered papers on it. He walked into the den of a woman he had yet to know, to learn all about her without even seeing her face.

A few bills and a charging cell phone decorated the desktop. There was no computer of any sort, which was odd. Moz shuffled through the bills, but nothing stood out. Slightly frustrated at his inability to find any damning evidence, he looked up and noticed that there were no pictures or artwork on the walls, save one small photo in a cheap frame. It was a picture taken at her high school graduation. She was standing with parents and younger brother, looking happy and proud. An instinct rose in him to tear it apart with a cutting remark, but the cynical retort died in his throat. So, this was what honest joy looked like. Frowning, he glanced around the barren, whitewashed, impersonal apartment. She'd had happiness. Where had it gone? Had it disappeared with her family, or had she rediscovered it elsewhere?

He turned abruptly and headed into the bedroom. Women, it seemed, always hid their deepest, darkest secrets in their bedrooms. Grasping the doorknob, he tried to turn it but it stuck. He gave it a hard rattle, and it finally gave and swung open. Patting around for a light switch, he flipped it on. His jaw dropped as he staggered back.

"Holy smokes."

Xxxx

"Diana, what did you find?" Peter answered his phone as he was driving in to the office.

"Her name's Shannon Gregory, and she's clean."

"Clean? You mean there's nothing on her? What about a boyfriend?"

"I couldn't find anything on that. We're just going to have to wait until she wakes up. Are we going to make this an official case?"

"I've gotta talk to Hughes, but I don't think there's a reason for the Bureau to get involved other than the fact that our CI is the eye witness and prime suspect."

"What? There's no reason for Neal to be implicated in this."

"That's what I tried telling that detective, but she didn't want to listen to me. Ya know –" Peter was gearing up for a good tirade, but Diana cut him off.

"Boss, she's the daughter of a former FBI agent."

"What? Who?"

"Matthew Gregory. He's based out of Boston, but he retired early when a sting went south and he took a bullet to the knee."

"Where is he now? Has he been notified?"

"He was killed in a car accident five years ago, along with his wife."

"Oh." Peter couldn't think of a better reply. It was too early, and the night had been too long.

"Wouldn't Hughes approve of a Bureau led investigation because of her father's affiliation?"

Peter thought about Diana's question. It was a good idea, but… "No, there's no crime that warrants federal involvement."

"But if her father were alive, he would insist, correct?"

"If I were her father, I would." He cursed as a driver cut him off. It took him a second to shake off the distraction and tune back in. "Then let's try it from another angle. I'll be in the office soon and I'll talk to Hughes, but first I have to pick Neal up." _And get a cup of coffee._

"You sure you should involve him? If he's a suspect, it'll just look like the FBI is covering its butt."

He sighed and rubbed his face, "Maybe we can work a joint investigation. Alright, I still have to let him know I'm working on this. Otherwise…"

"He'll go off and try to solve it himself. I know."

"I'll see you soon."

"I'll have coffee waiting for you." He could hear her smile through the phone.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

Xxxx

Light slid through the unclosed blinds and danced on Neal's eyelids. He moaned at the intrusion. Then a few images flashed through his mind and he sat straight up, catching himself before he slid off the couch. A shiver ran up his back as he realized that he'd slept all night on the comfortable, albeit short, couch. Swinging his legs over the side, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As he mechanically undid the buttons on his wrinkled shirt, he hoped the warm water would wash away his exhaustion and the dreams from the night before.

When he finished, the steam hung in the air. He parted it as he padded out of the bathroom and into the walk-in closet to pick out a suit. With a nice choice folded neatly over one arm and a towel around his waist, he wandered out into his loft, still half in a fog.

"Neal!"

He started, then looked, then realized his state of undress and shifted the suit so it was covering as much of himself as possible. "Geez, Moz, warn a guy, would you?" he snapped as he glared at the little man sitting, or rather rocking, at his dining table. "What's the matter?"

"She's in it deep, man. I… I didn't know I could be out-speculated, but I have been." His eyes were wide, and his glasses were sliding off his nose. His clothes were extra frumpy and damp as if he had spent all night in an alley, and Neal was pretty sure that if Moz had any hair, it would have been disheveled.

"What happened? Who's in what?"

"That Shannon girl!"

Xxxx

Tamara Marcelo rubbed her tired eyes and looked over the papers once again. The girl still wasn't out of surgery and there was no one to call for permission to search the apartment, so she'd sent in a request for a warrant to search the apartment without the occupant's approval. At 8 AM the office was already abuzz with activity, but there was still no sound from the fax, nor did her email show that the judge's office had received her request. Frustrated, she hurried off to the break room for a cup of coffee, but all she found for her efforts was a burnt, empty pot. Growling under her breath that she'd fire whoever had drank the last bit of coffee, she called for an underling.

"Morris!"

"Yes'm?" Morris a young cop with that "deer in the headlights" look about him, so it was good thing he was still on desk duty.

"Make a fresh pot of coffee, and make it strong."

He stiffened slightly, but acquiesced. "Yes ma'am."

"Thank you." She smiled her appreciation and moved back to her desk. The evidence was inconclusive, and there wasn't enough to arrest that Caffrey kid. Besides, as the FBI's pet, it'd be damn hard to get a hold of him.

A commotion in the lobby roused her attention as three suited individuals marched in, oozing fed from their swagger, led by none other than Peter Burke.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement to her, "Detective Marcelo. How are you today?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"We are here to inform you that, due to the victim's ties to the FBI, we are offering to assist with the investigation."

Marcelo's pupils dilated and she firmed up her stance and put her hands on her hips, ready to light into him. But Peter put up his hands in the nick of time.

"Calm down. Before you blow a blood vessel, we are here to assist, not lead. We figured we can pool our resources, and get to the bottom of this."

Her eyes narrowed. "Forgive me if I don't readily accept your assistance, but usually anyone in a suit insists on taking lead. Why you'd roll over and let me be the boss does not jive with past fed experience." He sighed, as if ready for it, but she continued before he could explain, "Unless." A grin spread across her face. "You have no other way of participating and this was the best you could do."

The eyebrow twitch was all the answer she needed. The young male agent on Burke's left shifted uncomfortably, but the female agent on his right stared right back at her, unimpressed but civil. "Agent Diana Barrigan." She stuck out her hand in greeting, which went unshaken. She pulled it back. "And before you tell us to get out..." She removed a stamped, sealed document from her briefcase and handed it to Marcelo. "Official permission to grant us access to the victim's apartment. Our guys got a hold of her uncle in Arizona, and he gave the okay."

"How did you –?" Marcelo huffed. "We tried calling, but he doesn't have a phone."

Peter shrugged. "Like I said. Resources."

Marcelo sighed through her nose. These people would make her nuts if she let them. But right now, they came bearing gifts, and she'd take what she could get. "All right then, let's go see why someone tried to kill Ms. Shannon Gregory.

**A/N: We're going to get some answers soon! Sorry for the shorter chapter =/ But its alllll the build up that makes it so much fun!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm excited about this chapter, we get _some_ answers finally. All the reviews have been extremely kind. I was going to break my every other day rule, but then RL got in the way. :O and I am sorry! But I have NOT had time to respond to any of my reviewers. But I still love you all the same! *squishes in hugs* Ok… enough of me. Let's get back to the story!**

Neal hadn't seen Moz so worked up since he had "discovered" that global warming was a government conspiracy. Apparently, a secret cabal within the Pentagon was using taxpayer money to monkey around with the weather using highly advanced compounds called chemtrails. Moz had named Toyota as a major co-conspirator in this axis of evil and, in between gulps of wine, had sworn he'd never buy a Prius. Neal had done his best to avoid rolling his eyes.

And at the moment, Moz looked caught between choking on his drink and stroking out. All right, maybe "stroking out" was an exaggeration, but Neal didn't like the way his eyes were bugging. Best to cut to the chase.

"What did you find?"

Mozzie was off and running. "Her Pop was a fed, right? Well, 5 years ago, he was killed in an accident on a country road up in Maine, in the middle of winter. The thinking was that he and his wife were out for a drive, he hit a patch of ice, the car careened off the road past some trees, and crashed straight into an ice-covered pond, and they both died. Nice little prepackaged story. But our girl … Something made her question it. She started digging into the incident. By the way, I will continue to refer to it as an 'incident,' because it was definitely no accident at all."

He paused for breath, and Neal seized his chance to speak. "Before you go passing judgment, maybe it's not as sinister as you suspect."

Moz shook his head. "You weren't there, Neal. Her walls were covered in newspaper clippings, research, classified FBI files… God knows how she got her hands on _those_… When she wakes up, I would love to talk to her about that."

"Focus, Moz." Neal walked over to the kitchen counter and got the coffeemaker started.

"Oh, and there were photos," Moz went on. "Lots of photos, especially of her father. Those stalker types, with awesome backgrounds and kinda blurry faces? Lots of those. He was being followed, man. And they were taken after his retirement, because I saw he had a cane. Not to mention, there were lots of photos she took herself. Her entire closet is a dark room."

"Crimefighting photographer. Nice." Neal smiled, trying to add a little levity to keep his friend from having a coronary.

Moz waved him off. "Here's the important part. I think she made a break-through. She found a potential cover-up … within in the FBI."

Neal blinked slowly and tried not to make his sigh too dismissive, since it was early in the morning and he didn't have the energy to hold it in. This was so typically Moz. "Another one? Really?"

"I'm telling you man, those suits are more crooked than cons! Look, whatever it was, we have just found the apartment of The Woman Who Knew Too Much. Somebody caught on to what she was doing and tried to eliminate her."

Neal licked his lips. Moz seemed serious, but he had to ask. "Are you sure? That seems…"

"Sensational? Over the top? Insane? You know what they say."

Neal had no idea what they said, but he took a stab at it. "Truth is stranger than fiction?"

"No! Truth is rarely pure and never simple. That might seem like a dramatic exaggeration, but I have proof. Where's your computer?"

"Over there." He nodded his head at the bedside table, and Moz bolted to retrieve it. He quickly stuffed in his flashdrive, pressed a couple of buttons, and handed it over to Neal.

"Five hundred and thirty-six photos?"

Moz shrugged. "We need details … and I felt this needed to be done right. Besides, the cops will be crawling all over that place in an hour. I needed to record everything while it was still pristine."

As Neal started browsing the photos, he started to think that the girl he met last night would be a good match for Moz. She had done some very impressive work, documenting all of her father's actions before and after his shooting and retirement.

"He seemed to have been suspicious about something, and soon after that, he took a bullet to the knee," Moz said as Neal browsed. "Peculiar, no? Anyway, thanks to Shannon we know that he filed a complaint about friendly fire, but the investigation went nowhere and he dropped it." Neal scanned the files; looking at maps and documentation about the photographed locations, snapshots of different case files… it was a gigantic pile of information. Fortunately, Shannon had highlighted things that seemed to present some connections. Most intriguing to him was the photo of her parents' car.

Neal leaned in closer for a better look at an evidence snapshot with a lot of promise. It was a close-up of the twisted driver's side bumper of her dad's classic Buick Riviera … with a smattering of very blue paint flecks on a very green car. Neal tensed.

"She had every right to be suspicious."

"What'd I tell you?" Moz looked up from texting.

"And the cops are there?"

"As we speak, _mon frere_. Is Peter going to be working this?"

Neal shrugged. "He hasn't called yet. But, in any case, I'm the prime suspect right now. Even if he does take this on, he might not be able to include me."

"Then we continue working it ourselves." Moz tucked his PDA into his shirt pocket and stood up. "I have to go. I have someone with information."

"Let me know what you find," Neal said. "I'll see you later." Moz waved once in farewell and slipped out the door silently.

Alone at last, Neal sat there thinking and unconsciously rubbing his arms until it dawned on him why he was feeling a little chilly. He smiled and shook his head. The things you forgot when you were excited, honestly. Neal padded over to his bed to lay out his suit and dress while the coffeemaker worked its magic. There was no time to waste; he had to grab a cup of joe and get out of here. If Peter wouldn't be able to include him in this then he'd have to head straight for the source.

Eyes on the mirror, hand and comb working in waves, Neal slicked back his hair. He picked up his pea coat from its spot on the bed, shrugged into it, and checked his pockets to make sure he had his wallet. His fedora lay ignored on the dining table. Fashion demanded this; it didn't go well with the coat. But common sense and the weather both demanded something protective, so he slung his favorite plaid muffler around his neck and snagged a pair of leather gloves on his way out. The loft door closed almost noiselessly behind him. He avoided the squeaky boards under the stairs, and the living room was empty when he made the landing, which was a relief. He'd be able to escape the house before June could detain him with pleasantries, or pastries, or coffee, or whatever. He slipped out the front door and caught a cab.

Neal worked through what he knew during the quiet ride. This girl's father had been run off the road in the dead of winter, possibly by his own people. His daughter, trying to rectify matters by investigating on her own, had been shot in an alley. Anger flared as his thoughts drifted back to Kate. She too had been killed by people who hid in the shadows, and his hunt for her killers was on hold because of this case.

"You okay, man?" The cabbie was looking back at him expectantly, and Neal realized they were idling in front of the hospital.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." He pulled out his wallet and handed the money to the driver. His hands were shaking. He stuffed them back in his pockets.

The cabbie looked sympathetic. "It's okay. Every time I gotta take my Elsie here for chemo, it messes with me pretty bad."

"Really? So I'm not the only one?" Neal let himself look just lost and pained enough to be convincing. It wasn't hard.

"Not at all. I hope it goes well for you." The driver smiled his encouragement.

"Thanks." He opened the door and the icy cold cut through every layer of clothing on his body. It took him a moment to catch his breath and adjust. As he stood across the street from the slick sliding doors of the oldest hospital in America, he watched as people entered and left. Almost compulsively, his thoughts drifted back to Kate. Had she survived the blast, Neal would have pulled strings to get her brought here. Bellevue had the best trauma center in Manhattan. He would have come here with flowers and get well cards, and stayed by her bedside while she slept. If only he had insisted they meet somewhere else. If only he had known. If only.

His pocket was vibrating. Shaking off the mounting anxiety and guilt, he stuffed the darkness into the recesses of his mind and glanced at the caller ID. It made him smile that he'd even looked. Who else would it be this early in the morning? He hit "send."

"Peter! I was beginning to worry you had forgotten I was on your team."

"No. Not really. I, uh, well..."

"Couldn't involve me?"

"Yeah. Good news, though. You've been cleared as the main suspect, and we have a new lead."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I need you at the Bureau. You're on your way?"

"Of course," he answered with a cheerfulness he didn't feel, and hung up.

Peter wasn't there to see Neal's mask fall, to see the slumped shoulders or the sigh of disappointment. He wouldn't be talking to Shannon today. Neal glanced up at the higher floors of the building. Somewhere behind one of those windows was a woman who needed him. She'd done a very brave thing, and now he had a duty to see her investigation through to the end. Neal didn't believe in destiny, but he did believe in the old saying that there were no accidents. He'd followed his gut and gone back for a reason. He'd found her in that alley for a reason. He could help her, and he would. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, and walked away with purpose.

"Peter! Hey, guys, I brought coffee." He gently slid some papers out of the way and set the tray of cups on the conference room table. "So, what'd I miss?" Peter's analytical stare was easily ignored. Instead, Neal politely acknowledged the scattering of NYPD detectives sitting among the agents.

"Well, Miss Gregory was in the middle of unraveling a cover-up. Her father and mother were murdered. Her father was undoubtedly the target, and someone tried to make it look like an accident."

He let his face twist in puzzlement, knowing full well Peter was gauging his reaction. "A cover-up."

"Yeah." The word was heavy. "We think that a dirty cop, or possibly a corrupt FBI agent, was on the payroll of the Boston mob."

Neal nodded solemnly, even though he knew this already. And while he kind of enjoyed hearing "corrupt" and "FBI" in the same sentence, he still felt a little bad for Peter, who probably felt disgusted and slightly filthy by association.

"I see. And when did this person kill Shannon's parents?"

"Five years ago. We need to talk to the SAC in Boston, and maybe even the mobster that Agent Gregory was pursuing. The guy only went down for possession, but the DA got the charges to stick for a very long time." Peter's jaw twitched, probably, Neal reasoned, because his famous gut was bothering him. "We'll be driving."

Neal flashed him a megawatt smile. "Road trip!"

Peter just groaned. But as soon as they were alone and walking to the car, Peter grabbed his elbow and asked what Mozzie had dug up.

Neal shrugged. "He couldn't even find a parking ticket on her. But he _did_ say this was an FBI cover-up."

Peter shook his head. "Unbelievable. If we keep uncovering cover-ups, pretty soon there'll be no FBI left." He stalked ahead to the car, fuming all the way about crooks in the ranks, while Neal desperately fought down a smile.

On the way to Boston, Neal had the back of the Taurus all to himself. Detective Tamara Marcelo was riding along and she'd called shotgun, but frankly he felt he'd gotten the better deal. Sitting pretty in the middle of the backseat, he enjoyed the panoramic view and let his limbs sprawl out like a spider, stretching himself as far as he could because there was nobody to bump into. The winter scenery flew by on either side as they made their way out of the city. They drove down the highway and Neal absently took in all the spruce and fir trees dusted with snow. It was relaxing. Living with so many other people crammed into a fairly small town, it was hard to imagine any other kind of life, but once Peter hit the 95 and they'd been driving a few miles, it felt like they'd slipped into Monet's "Cart on the Road to Honfleur." The houses they passed were half a mile apart and small towns lay quiet under dazzling white blanket of snow.

Marcelo had been fractious and difficult to deal with, but Neal wasn't terribly concerned about the friction. It was exactly what he expected from a hardcore cop begrudgingly working with a convicted felon. He knew he'd win her over eventually. That said, they'd been driving for a while and she had yet to say a word to him. Squirming in the silence, he checked the clock on the dashboard. Another couple hours before they pulled into Boston, at least. His eyes darted around as he looked for something to occupy him. He couldn't afford to get lost in his own head, especially not with other people around. Something was winking at him from under Peter's seat. He reached down and grabbed it. It was a slightly dusty clicky pen. Clicking it in and out, he gazed out the window again, watching the snowdrifts pass by. The countryside was gorgeous, and soon they would be entering Worchester. On second thought, maybe the countryside was less Monet and more Renoir…

"Stop that!" Peter barked.

Neal jumped and dropped the pen back on the floor. "Sorry. So, what's the plan?"

Marcelo finally said something, even though it wasn't exactly a newsflash. "We're going to Boston and investigate Agent Gregory's death. That should lead us to Shannon's attacker." She shot a look over to Peter. "This means FBI takes the case, doesn't it?"

"Yep. It's ours, now."

"Care to leave us in the loop?"

"You're in the car, aren't you? Frankly, I think we should keep working this from the NYPD precinct, to keep as much distance as we can from the FBI. If we have a mole, I don't want them to know what's going on."

Neal nodded. It was a sound idea, especially since Hughes had called them at the last gas station. The FBI was leading the investigation and technically Organized Crime should have taken over, but a sudden flare-up in Chinatown had the department overextended and Peter had been granted permission to continue running the case. OPR hadn't been notified yet of the possible corruption angle and Hughes was deliberately dawdling with the initial paperwork, a move that Peter had praised. After the White Collar division's previous experiences with OPR, nobody was eager to involve them in this until it was absolutely necessary.

In any case, Neal was completely confident that his handler could handle this.

Boredom struck again. He was still exhausted from the night before, and he decided a cat nap wouldn't hurt. He toed off his shoes and neatly lined them up underneath Marcelo's seat, then brought his legs up to sit Indian style and tipped his head back against the headrest. His lashes fluttered shut, and he relaxed. And almost immediately, he saw her.

_Eyes of deepest blue gazed into his. Soft hair the color of molten chocolate framed an angel's face. Her familiar pouty little lip stuck out a little. He gently brushed her wavy tresses off her cheeks and leaned in to kiss her. Warmth enveloped him, and it was so pleasant that it took him a minute to realize there was a problem. The warmth wasn't coming from the inward flush from a kiss. He looked down and gave a shout; Kate's left pant leg was on fire. He beat it down, trying to put it out, but it was like slapping a ball of dough onto a pile of flour. The fire just exploded in all directions. He looked around for something to fight the blaze, but he was alone in an empty room. His coat! He took it off to smother the flames, but by the time he got it off, she was completely engulfed. _

_"Kate!"_

_No screaming, no pain. Just his name. "Neal." Her voice was velvet and growly, like when they made love. "Neal, look deeper. It's not what it looks like."_

_"Kate!" He reached out for her, but she dissolved into ash and the wind blew her away. "KATE!"_

He sat straight up, fighting with whatever was restraining him and gasping for air. It was the seatbelt, looming over him. Somehow he'd fallen asleep and toppled over on his side. He glanced at the front seat and huffed in relief. The car was stopped in a parking lot, snow was drifting gently down onto the windshield, and he was alone. Shaking off the remnants of the dream, he fought his way through the seatbelts, sat up, and tried to straighten his clothing. A welcome sight out the window distracted him from his thoughts.

Peter was walking towards the car with a take-away bag, breath fogging in the frosty air. They nodded at each other in greeting as the agent climbed in and slammed his door shut.

"Marcelo's in the head. She'll be out soon."

Neal yawned. "A'right."

Peter quietly situated himself in the driver's seat while Neal stretched his arms and finally got a look at the back seat, which had started out tidy and was now a total mess. He shook his head. During the course of his epic nap, he'd apparently made a little nest for himself out of his pea coat, and snack wrappers – undoubtedly Peter's and Marcelo's – littered the floor of the cabin.

"Here, I got you some dinner. I was going to wake you up and take you in with us, but you looked like you needed the rest."

The small consideration was surprisingly touching. Neal gave him a genuine smile. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter nodded. "It's nothing fancy, but it's food." He leaned across the front elbow rest and handed Neal a steaming sack of Taco Bell.

Neal's mouth wisely said nothing. Neal's _face_ said, "I beg to differ." He eyed the contents suspiciously, resealed the top, and handed it back to Peter. His smile was tight, now. "You know, that's really kind of you, but I'm actually not that hungry."

Peter snatched the bag away. "Fine, then. More for me."

Neal ignored this and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "How much longer until we hit Boston?"

"About 45 minutes. Oh, wait! Here, I got you something else." Peter handed him a small book, obviously purchased from the 7-11 across the street from the Taco Bell. "There ya go. You can put that clicky pen to good use."

Neal accepted the book – pamphlet, really – from Peter. Printed on gray recycled paper with a goofy cartoon cowboy on the cover, the title screamed, _NINETY-NINE CROSSWORDS FOR NINETY-NINE CENTS! WOW!_

"You're too kind."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ahead of schedule, and decided I couldn't wait to post this tomorrow! So as a weekend treat, here's an early posting! And as always, the reviews... are very much appreciated!  
**

The tension among the three of them hadn't eased with their arrival in Boston. While they waited in the conference room at the FBI's Boston headquarters, Peter watched Neal absently swivel back and forth in his chair as he studied the file in front of him. Detective Marcelo was motionless in her seat, eyes slightly glazed as she stared off into the distance. If Peter hadn't known her any better, he might have thought she was meditating.

He was nervous, too. His fingers only stopped tapping on the table when a middle-aged man in a suit and tie walked in to join them. He stood in greeting.

"Hi. Special Agent Peter Burke. This is Senior Detective Tamara Marcelo of the NYPD and my consultant, Mr. Neal Caffrey." The man smiled pleasantly and there was a round of handshakes. "And you must be?"

"Special Agent Jeremy Alston." The man spoke with a mellow voice steadied by years in the field, but every consonant was clipped. Peter knew he was irritated, although he was hiding it pretty well. Alston pulled out a chair and sat down. "Was the drive over all right?"

"Yes, thank you. Well, let's get down to business. I'm sure you've been informed of the reason for our visit?" Peter watched Alston carefully and there it was: the nostril flare. Telltale threat response. This man would cooperate, but not happily.

"Yes. You've been sent here to discuss old cases." It was a statement, not a question. Alston gave off a no-bull, sturdy, astute vibe. It was no surprise to Peter that he had been promoted to SAC.

Peter could respect that. He got right down to it. "Basically. We're looking into the line of duty shooting of Special Agent Matthew Gregory, who was apparently injured by friendly fire. You were on the case?"

A visible narrowing of the eyes was Alston's initial reaction. He stumbled on the reply. "We, uh … yes. Yes, I was. But, Agent Burke, that was resolved years ago. Why the…"

"Sudden interest?" Peter leaned back in his chair. "Well, a pattern of events has come to light, this event being part of it, and we feel the need to reinvestigate." He saw Neal smirk out of the corner of his eye.

Alston recovered his composure. "All right, but that was many years ago. He's not even alive. What is this, really? Is this about his death?"

"What would make you jump to that conclusion?"

Peter was hoping for a guilty twitch or something, but Alston looked more put-out than anything else. "It is." He sighed in annoyance. "Listen, I already told OPR all I knew about the friendly fire incident. And I know the agents who investigated his car accident. The investigative team and CSI both ruled it as exactly that. An accident. It wasn't as though someone put black ice in the middle of the road for him." Now Alston looked more pained than annoyed. "Agent Gregory wasn't just my colleague; he was my mentor, and my friend. And whatever is happening now, he's dead. Why are you really here, Agent Burke?"

Peter was calm. "Gregory's daughter, Shannon, was just gunned down in an alley in New York for no apparent reason. We started looking into it and found that she had been conducting her own investigation into her father's death. And despite what your team said, and what CSI said, this is looking less and less like and accident and more like a murder. We think Shannon stumbled upon some new information that rattled whoever killed her father, and they decided to silence her."

Alston straightened his already proper posture. "Did she survive?"

Peter couldn't determine the motivation for his interest, so he continued in the same clinical tone. "Barely. She's in ICU in Brooklyn. I've been told she's doing better, though. The doctors are hoping she'll come around later today and maybe shed some light on all this, but I don't want the leads we have to go cold, so we've been investigating anyway."

Alston nodded. "Listen. Agent Gregory was a highly respected, well regarded officer. I was his right-hand man." He looked pensive, as though debating something with himself, but he finally met Peter's eyes. "I knew that the bullet that ended his career wasn't from the enemy side, but we had absolutely no proof. He told me he wanted to retire with what dignity he had left and be there for his family, and I agreed, but I felt a duty to him, so I filed the report, which is why you have it. I _do_ know that a few months after his son Danny left home, he came sniffing around the offices again. Said it was to catch up with some buddies, but I knew better. Matt was tenacious. He was a damn good agent, and he'd been forced into retirement. I think he was looking into his last case. He couldn't just let it go cold. A few months later, his car went into the drink. Coincidences don't exist in our world, Agent Burke." He gave a quiet, stabilizing sigh. "I know about Shannon's investigation, too. I helped her kick-start it. The problem is, it went nowhere. The biggest lead we had was the crunched quarter panel, and there was an estimate done on it earlier that week by an auto body shop in town, confirming the damage was accidental. That ended the case before it even began. I knew Shannon wasn't satisfied with that answer, but I couldn't pursue it."

"You still helped her though, right?"

The older agent narrowed his eyes, "Wouldn't you?"

Peter held up his hands. "We're not here about me, and I'm not here about that anyway. Did you have any clues, or even a hunch, of who was behind the friendly fire all those years ago?"

"If I did, don't you think I would have pursued it?"

"Fair enough. Who did you take down in Gregory's final sting?"

"Gavino Bellucci. Mob boss right here in Boston. He's doing a hard thirty in the state pen."

Peter nodded. "All right, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch. And if you can think of anything else, please call me." Peter slid his business card over.

Alston read it, and he frowned. "White Collar?" The incredulous stare almost made Peter cringe.

"Yeah. Organized Crime was overwhelmed, so we got the case. Again, thank you." He smiled, and everyone stood to leave. As they filed their way out of the room, Alston stopped Peter with a touch to the elbow.

"Matt's motto was to follow your gut. I didn't and…" The pause hung there.

"I'll find who shot Shannon," Peter reassured the older agent. No matter how many cases they worked, no matter how many bad guys they caught, Peter knew that mistakes like this haunted agents till their dying breath. He turned and caught up to Neal and Marcelo, who were waiting at the elevator.

"What now?" Marcelo asked.

"Now? Now, we go talk to Gavino Bellucci." He stated as he fixed his tie and straightened his coat.

Neal slowly shook his head and grinned. "Was that supposed to be an Italian accent?"

"Shush."

Marcelo chuckled under her breath, but quickly regained her composure and pursed her lips. "I have to say, I don't like where this case is going. Crooked feds?"

Peter straightened in defense. "The FBI has a long, proud history of good work. We're not all part of some shady cabal."

Neal chipped in, "Besides, corruption is everywhere these days, especially when money is tight."

Marcelo glared at him. "Yeah. _Especially_ when so many people get scammed out of their life savings by crooks, who then turn around and live off the taxpayers' dime."

Peter watched Neal's eyes widen with innocence as they stepped onto the elevator. "Hey, I'm reformed, and the taxpayers spend the same amount as if I were behind bars."

She glanced over at Peter, who nodded his agreement.

"Then how the hell do you dress like Calvin Klein?"

"Actually, it's a Devore. Classic…" He cut himself off as Peter motioned for him to shut up.

"Rat Pack?" Marcelo finished, in a shocked voice.

"Yeah. Found it in a thrift store." He was flat, wary, gauging her reaction.

"Really? Did the former owners even know what they had?"

Peter saw the gleam re-enter Neal's face as he grinned.

"Actually, she did. A very nice widow was donating her husband's old clothes. She said she'd rather someone use it and appreciate it then keeping it hung up in an attic closet. We hit it off and she happened to have an apartment for rent inside my price range."

"Unbelievable. I pull long hours and do all this hard work just to put guys like you behind bars, and then you get to live like a king because of a chance meeting on the street?"

"Whoa, take it easy." He glanced at Peter for help, who shook his head. He was going to let Neal backpedal his own way out of this one. "It was a chance meeting. You could've had it too if you had been shopping, since you know Devore. Big fan of the Rat Pack?"

"My father had every album Sinatra released, and my mother loved Dean Martin. You can't help but be influenced by that. I have some great memories of us sitting around listening to them on old 45's." The crowfeet eased as she smiled at the fond memories, and Peter sighed as they exited the elevator car. Neal would always befuddle him.

Xxxx

Peter led the way to the car, Neal followed, and Tamara Marcelo brought up the rear, lost in her own thoughts. She'd always considered herself a strong woman, and she had done enough living to know when she was being charmed, especially by a conman that she instinctively distrusted. But between that casual, graceful stroll happening front of her, that smile and those damn blue eyes, Tamara felt herself melt just a little bit. Neal was a con artist, and she'd always be on her guard, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the view or the conversation. Besides, she had a feeling that Neal had been on the straight and narrow for a while now.

As for Peter, the Fed had earned her respect, and not just the grudging kind. He was a good guy, polite and courteous, an honest agent who upheld the law, and he had obviously seen potential in Caffrey, who had also impressed her. Since he had been cleared as a suspect, Neal had turned around and been extremely useful. It was starting to make her rethink her position. The fact that he had gone back to save a woman that he didn't even know was something that she almost didn't even know what to do with. She was cynical, and the first to admit that. But the easy interaction between the two men was a nice breath of fresh air, especially compared to the relationships she usually saw on the job.

They reached the car and she saw that Neal was standing at the front passenger side, holding her door open for her. With a very civil nod and smile, she lowered herself into the seat and let him swing it shut.

Xxxx

Peter nearly took off the paint of a neighboring car as they pulled into a reserved space in the prison's parking lot. Neal was the last to get out. As he squeezed through the narrow gap between door and car, he noticed a man in a cheap black suit walking towards them with a get-out-of-my-way swagger. A Fed of some persuasion, obviously. But Neal could tell from fifty paces that he wasn't FBI, and if the look on Peter's face was anything to go by, Peter had picked up on this, too. The man's face was shadowed at awkward angles by the parking lot's orange lighting. They'd left New York a little after two in the afternoon and pulled into Boston at seven o'clock on the dot. Now that the conversation with Agent Alston and the short drive to the prison were behind them, it was 8:15, and the parking lot was lit up like a beacon against the dark and freezing night.

"Can I help you?" Peter asked with a frown, his greeting more accusation than question.

Neal waited for an answer and considered the newcomer. Somehow, against the laws of physics and logic, this man wasn't any clearer close-up than he was at a distance. Square face, plain and forgettable suit, boring shoes … not even a splash of color from a pocket square. He looked like an extra from _Men in Black_. Sure enough, a pair of dark sunglasses was perched on his head.

"Are you Agent Burke?"

"Yes. What's going on?"

Neal's cell phone started to wail in his pocket. With an apologetic glance at the two agents, he pulled it out and checked the caller. "It's Diana. I'll be right back." He walked away to give them the illusion of privacy.

The new guy said, "Sir, I'm here to inform you that…"

Neal tuned him out and answered the phone with a smile. "Diana, what a pleasant surpri–"

"Neal, save it. Where's Peter?" Diana sounded frantic and frustrated.

Neal recognized the urgency and snapped into "business" mode. "He's right here with me. Were you trying to reach him? His phone is off; it's charging in the car. What's wrong?"

Peter suddenly shouted, "Drop the investigation? On whose authority?"

"I think he found out." Diana's dejected voice filled his ear.

Neal watched – and winced – as Peter lit into the guy, who attempted to defend himself. Loud, unsavory comments were exchanged in the background as things escalated, and Neal blocked one ear to better hear his colleague. "What the hell is going on, Diana?"

"NSA is taking over. They said it's a matter of national security. They've already confiscated all of the files and evidence we've gathered on Agent Gregory's case."

Neal shook his head in disbelief. "Wow. And they say that crooks are thieves. This is insane. They can really do that? Just swoop down and take everything?"

"Yup. Look, I'm not happy about this, but when it comes to national security, it's the NSA's show. They said that this case of Agent Gregory's is linked to several other cases that they've been working on, and they're not letting the FBI near it. They said they have enough manpower to investigate it themselves. We've been –"

"Stonewalled." Neal completed.

Peter stormed over, snatching for the phone. Neal handed it over and backed away. The NSA agent with the bad news and the sunglasses had turned tail. He was making a beeline back the way he'd come.

"Are they in the right?" Peter said into the phone. There was a pause and then … "Okay. I need to speak to Hughes, Diana. Would you transfer me?"

Neal padded over to Marcelo, who was now also angrily talking on her phone. She hung up as Neal leaned against the car.

He looked at the detective, waiting for her to share some information and idly observing that even though she seemed like a fire-breathing monster sometimes, she couldn't be taller than 5'5". This thought amused him until she sighed through her nose and turned a glare on him that could have blasted rust off a pipe. It sank his smile like the Titanic.

"Okay... So, um, did you learn anyth-"

"God, this government _bull_!" she exploded. "These _feds_ have the funding and the connections, and they so 'generously' let my men stay on the case because they can't be bothered with the legwork. Soon as the legwork's done," she snapped her fingers, "They cut us out of the loop, no information, no reason, without so much as a thank-you."

Neal wasn't pleased either, but now was the time to plan and act, not shout. "Yeah, I get it, the NSA stinks. The Bureau is completely with you on that. What do we do now?"

"Go home," Peter said flatly as he walked up to them, handing over Neal's phone.

"What? Peter, we can't just…" Neal started.

Peter sliced the air with his hand. "No. We're done. It's over. NSA has the case. Their opinion, according to Hughes, is that it's not connected to Shannon's shooting. Apparently the NSA is very invested in the mobster we were about to interview. Why, I don't know, but we're not getting any further."

"What happens to Shannon?" Neal asked. "Can't we still try to figure out who shot her?"

Peter sighed and shook his head. "No. Without this link to her father, her shooting is getting tossed back to the NYPD. We don't have any jurisdiction. She'll stay in a secure room at Bellevue until she's healthy enough for WitSec … if she agrees to protective custody, that is." He slumped against the car in defeat. Marcelo had already wiggled her way between the cars to take shotgun and was angrily trying to snap her seatbelt buckle into place.

"Let's go home." Peter said, and he motioned for Neal to get in the car.

The whole ride back to New York, Peter and Marcelo exchanged a total of four gloomy sentences with each other and Neal said nothing at all. He spent the ride staring out the window at the snowy night without seeing it. The clicky pen and halfway finished crossword book were hiding somewhere. He didn't bother looking for them. The resignation in Peter's voice had scared him. Peter always got his man; Neal was living proof of that. And Peter had dedicated his life to this system. To be cut off at the knees by the very institution he worked for had to be really frustrating. Neal was nowhere near Peter on the dedication scale. He was still trying to consistently think of the federal system as something other than an instrument of oppression. But justice and the course of a woman's life were now in the palsied hands of the NSA, and even though he was still in the "experimental" phase of being a good guy, as a member of an FBI team, he was offended on his agency's behalf. Besides, this felt like losing, and he hated to lose. He couldn't even imagine how terrible Peter must feel.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: A late Sunday evening treat to wrap up the weekend. I'm not sure about you guys, but the sun came out and it has been gorgeous here! Haven't spent a bit of it indoors, till I got this nasty cold this afternoon and slept for a good 3 hours. Oh well. *shrugs* maybe I'll re-watch season 1 of White Collar. :) Again! Thank you for all the reviews! **

They had dropped Marcelo off at the precinct a little after midnight and continued on to Federal Plaza. Peter pulled into the parking garage. As soon as he threw the Taurus into park, they hopped out of the car and headed for the office. Once they finished up the respective paperwork, they could head home.

Neal made a cup of coffee to keep his blood pumping and sat down at his desk with a quiet sigh. Despite the unexpected wiggle room and the nap, he'd spent nine hours in a car today, and his back was tight. He did all the seated stretches he could think of, and after a quick look around, he decided to keep to himself until it was time to go. The atmosphere in the office was tense and angry. Jones was sipping his java carefully, but he was gripping the mug so tightly that Neal was surprised the ceramic hadn't shattered. Diana was typing so furiously at her computer that he expected to see sparks and smoke begin to drift up from the keyboard. And Peter stalked up to his office and attempted to slam the swinging door.

Nobody spoke. Everyone was trying to be professional and keep working in the face of this setback, but it was easy to see how disappointed and upset they all were. Neal took comfort in the fact that at least he wasn't alone in his anger.

After a mind-numbing hour spent filling out forms for the investigation, Neal was done. He walked up the stairs into Peter's office to find his partner on the phone. Peter saw him and motioned him in with two fingers as he spoke.

"El, honey, please just go to bed. It's after one! You have that big meeting tomorrow. … No, everything's fine, I'm just stuck at the office. … No, I'm gonna hit the gym and then head home. I'll see you in the morning, hon, all right? … Love you too. G'night." He hung up. "Yes?"

As usual, Neal felt a little awkward listening to the Burkes talk, even though he was only privy to half the conversation. Their normal life and exceptional relationship always made feelings bubble up inside him that he would rather leave alone. "Um, all the F80's are taken care of. If you don't need me for anything else, I was going to go home."

"You don't want to join me at the gym?"

"Nah, I'm not in the mood to get all sweaty."

"You sure? You don't wanna take your frustration out on a basketball? If nothing else, it'll help you sleep."

Neal smiled. "Maybe next time."

"Okay. I'll pick you up in, um … " Peter was about to say "the morning" before he realized that it technically _was_ the morning. "Um, I'll pick you up at 9. It's been a really long day."

"Sounds good. See you then."

"Make sure you bundle up. We might have to deal with the remnants of the ice storm they predicted last week."

Neal shook his head. "Weathermen. What's the saying? They're the only people on earth that can be wrong 90% of the time and still keep their jobs?"

Peter snorted at the joke, but otherwise didn't react. Neal hoped he'd lifted his friend's spirits at least a little bit. He left Peter to his paperwork and exited quietly.

Grabbing his coat as he passed his desk, he waved goodbye to his teammates and headed for the elevators. He hit the button and pulled on his coat as he waited for the car to arrive. A whole room full of bad energy and tension after a very long, silent car ride had finally engaged his fight-or-flight response. He had to get out of here. Several restless glances at the squad room and four button mashes later, the elevator finally dinged. He got in, selected the first floor and backed into the corner, trying to consciously relax his shoulders and keep them from seizing up.

Mask firmly in place, he walked through the lobby and waved goodnight to the security guard as he finished buttoning his coat and tying his scarf. Once he was outside in the cold, he felt marginally better. He held out his hand for a cab, but it sailed right on by, sending up a wave of slush. Neal jumped back to avoid getting splattered.

"Damn it." He muttered. He tried to hail another cab, but that one blew past him as well.

Now Neal was irritated. Fortunately, he was an experienced New Yorker. He knew how to handle this. He boldly stepped out into traffic, tweezed a bill between two gloved fingers, and waved his hand while whistling loudly through his teeth. This got the attention of a hungry taxi, which bellied up to the curb and screeched to a stop. It just barely avoided hitting him.

Neal climbed in and pocketed the bill. "Thanks," he said to the driver. "Bellevue, please. And step on it."

"Yes, sir."

Neal had no intention of heading home. He couldn't do anything more to help her, but he at least needed to face the girl he had failed. Well, the system had failed her, but he was working for the system, so it was really the same thing. When he thought about flaws like this, and times like these, he couldn't understand how Peter was able to deal with it. How could you calmly stand by and watch another agency run off with all your hard work and bury it under a rock? It was ludicrous.

The NSA had left the White Collar division with only a few evidence reports regarding Shannon's shooting, in all their annoyingly sparse detail. And all the files they had on her father's line-of-duty shooting, as well as the results of Shannon's five year investigation, were probably being buried right now in the bowels of some NSA warehouse somewhere, never to be seen again. There would be no justice, and no answers. Not only had he let her down, but her private investigation was now damaged irreparably. The FBI had no way to help find her shooter, and the NSA was ready to throw her into the witness protection program and make her give up her life. This was wrong. He had to figure out a way to make it right.

The taxi pulled up in front of the familiar glass doors. Neal paid the fare, tipped the cabbie, and stepped lively through the cold night air. Once inside the foyer, he headed for the 24-hour gift shop to pick up some flowers and then it was into the elevator and up to the ICU. There was an officer posted outside the heavy doors that opened onto the Critical Care area. Through the window behind the cop, Neal could see two more policemen down the hall, standing guard at the door to Shannon's room. They all looked very weary.

"Hi. I'm here to see Shannon Gregory." He had to look up at the officer in order to speak to him. The guy was huge. 6'4", 200 pounds, easy. Neal put on his nicest smile.

"And you are?" The man stood at ease. His fingers twitched, ready to grab his sidearm if need be.

"Neal Caffrey. I'm a consultant with the FBI."

"ID?"

"Right here." Neal set the flowers on a nearby bench and pulled out his badge.

As the officer looked over Neal's credentials, something seemed to click upstairs. "You're the guy that found her?" Neal nodded. "Wow, man, good job. Yeah, you can see her. She's still out, though. The doctors said she's just gonna have to wake up on her own."

"Thanks," Neal said. The officer patted him on the shoulder as he walked past and Neal nodded solemnly, meanwhile counting his lucky stars that the NSA had apparently forgotten to tell the NYPD and the hospital staff that the FBI no longer had the right to be anywhere near Miss Shannon Gregory. The two other cops, having seen the encounter outside and realizing Neal was all right, acknowledged him and opened the door to her room.

Steeling himself, he walked in. Six monitors were going at once. Tubes ran like lifelines into the figure on the bed. Her hair had been pushed away from her face, but some sweaty strands were stuck to her forehead. The click-whoosh of the ventilator and the quiet beeps of the monitors were the only sounds Neal could hear. Shannon Gregory looked nothing like the woman from the night before. She was helpless and still, with pale skin and a blank expression around the breathing tube. And while she technically wasn't at Death's door, she was definitely on the porch steps.

Neal set the flowers down near the small sink positioned in the far corner, and then he grabbed the room's only chair and set it down next to the bed. A knock at the door heralded the entrance of a woman in blue scrubs and a lab coat. Neal got a quick look at her nametag. Under the terrible ID picture it read _Angela Sydney, MD, Bellevue Hospital Center, _and a line under that added, _ICU Attending Physician_.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Sydney," she said. She was a few years older than Neal, with kind eyes and a ponytail of ash blond hair. "You are?"

"Neal." He stood and shook her hand.

"Ah, yes, the FBI guy! Well, thank you for saving my patient's life."

Considering what bad shape Shannon was in, Neal wasn't sure he agreed with the doctor's word choice. He glanced back over at the bed.

The doctor picked up on his worry. "I know it looks bad, but the respirator is only a precaution. She had a bad reaction to the anesthesia due to conflicting medications. There was a bottle of painkillers in her purse. We didn't find it until after she had the reaction, but we were able to treat her immediately. You know, Mr. Caffrey, if you hadn't come back for her when you did, I'm sure this would be a different story." Neal still wasn't convinced, but the doctor went on. "Um, I realize this is a difficult thing to talk about, but we haven't been able to track down any of her family. Would you be able to take charge of her personal effects?" she asked, and smiled knowingly as her gaze flickered between her patient and the consultant. "Although, I guess it's probably a little early in the relationship for you to be carrying her purse for her, huh?"

Neal was polite. "Well, I suppose you could say that. I only met her last night."

Dr. Sydney furrowed her brow, creasing her pretty face. "Oh, I thought… Well, never mind, then. But I'm sure I can trust you to look after her things, right?"

"Of course you can trust me," Neal said with a warm, practiced smile.

Dr. Sydney smiled back. "Excellent. Well, feel free to stay and talk to her. It does help, you know. I'll have a nurse come up with her belongings. You can take them home for her." She finished checking the monitors and made some notes on the chart before slipping it back into its plastic holder at the foot of the bed. Before she headed out of the room, she turned and looked over her shoulder. "I'm sure you already did this, but just in case you forgot, please turn off your cell phone." Neal nodded. She left and the door swung shut behind her.

Neal, on finding himself alone with Shannon, did the only thing that made sense to him. He sat down in the chair and took her hand.

Xxxxx

Peter sighed through his nose as the taxi in front of him stopped again. The trip to June's was taking longer than usual this morning. The navigation system in the Taurus had helpfully informed him that an accident and some road work were creating gridlock, but its "alternate suggestions" weren't speeding things up very much. At the rate this traffic was moving, he'd be picking Neal up at noon. He took the suggestions mindlessly anyway, though. He had too many other things to think about. After a bit of sleep and explaining things to his wife this morning, something had started nagging at him. It wasn't some inconsistency in Agent Alston's testimony, or even lingering frustration at the NSA completely cutting them off. It was something else entirely.

Neal had obviously stumbled onto something big. The safety of the entire nation was at risk somehow, which explained why the NSA was involved. But just the idea that this was a national security issue sat wrong in Peter's head. How on earth had something supposedly so big and serious culminated in such a relatively small event? Issues like this, in Peter's experience, had a bit more flash and bang. They didn't generally resolve themselves with alleyway shootings during ice storms. Besides, this shooting didn't even succeed in killing its victim. That in itself was fishy. And if their working theory was right, and Shannon's attackers had been the same people who killed her father – without leaving any evidence of foul play – then why the sloppy work now with the daughter? Well, either the girl had taken them by surprise by fighting back, or the sloppy work had been a deliberate ploy to fool the NYPD. The police would do their best to investigate what, they would assume, was a mugging gone bad. They wouldn't find any clues, the case would get lost among the thousands of others they had to deal with, and it would go cold.

Neither of those ideas made much sense to Peter. As he sat in stop-and-go, he went back to the beginning. What did he know and trust? The list was short: his gut, and Neal's instincts. Neal had realized – too late for his own high standards but realized nonetheless – that the guys at the bar had been sent to eliminate Shannon Gregory. And Peter's gut told him that this had nothing to do with the NSA, or national security, or the murder of Shannon's father. It was much simpler. They'd been looking at this all wrong.

Seeing he was on Neal's street, he pulled up with a hard stop in front of June's. As soon as the maid let him into the mansion, he dashed by her as politely as possible, hurried up the grand staircase three stairs at a time, rapped on the door to Neal's loft, and checked his watch. 9:15. Well, that wasn't so bad. The door was unlocked, so he went right on in, expecting to find Neal seated at his dining table, reading the newspaper and drinking some coffee. Somebody was indeed seated at Neal's table, but it wasn't Neal.

Mozzie was slumped in one of the wooden chairs, his phone sitting on the tabletop before him. He was staring at it with intense concentration, as though he could make it ring through force of will alone. He looked up as Peter entered.

"You're not Neal!" Mozzie exclaimed at the same time as Peter said, "Where's Neal?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I don't know. I can't get a hold of him. His phone keeps going directly to voicemail."

And Peter figured it out. "Neal's got to be at the hospital with Shannon."

He turned to leave when Mozzie shouted, "Stop! We've got this all wrong, Suit."

"I know."

Mozzie's mouth fell open in surprise. It wasn't often he and Peter agreed on something. "How'd you figure?"

"Shannon was out looking for the professional killers who took out her dad, but her hit was amateur hour. It was sloppy and it didn't even work. If she'd run into the people who killed her father, she'd be dead. Her investigation wasn't what got her in trouble; it was something much simpler, and much closer to home." Then Peter frowned. "What made _you_ decide we weren't on the right track?"

"I didn't just 'decide it.' I have proof. The word on the street is that there's a snitch that's gone into hiding, and there's two grand waiting for anybody who can find her."

Peter scratched his head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Note the particular object pronoun associated with the antecedent 'snitch' in that last sentence."

It took Peter a few eye blinks to meander through that grammatical thicket, but he came out the other side quickly. "Shannon Gregory … is a snitch. Or at least, somebody thinks she is, and put out a hit on her. You're positive about this."

Mozzie nodded.

"Yeah. Moz, I hate to break this to you, but that's called 'hearsay'. It's not proof."

Mozzie looked utterly offended. "Oh, gee, really? I had no idea," he snapped. "Of _course_ that isn't proof. I _do_ have a law degree, thank you very much." He took a moment to smooth down his feathers, metaphorically speaking, and collected himself. "I did some digging, and I found out who contracted the hit. A certain Dr. Darius Mitchell, DDS."

"A dentist?"

"No, he's a super-villain. _Yes_, he's a dentist."

"All right, all right," Peter said, holding up a hand. "And his connection to Miss Gregory is…?"

"That name, with the accompanying DDS, was at the bottom of a bill sitting on Shannon's desk. It was dated the day she got shot."

"How do you know this?"

"I have my ways."

Peter nodded. "Fair enough. Do you know why he would be looking for her?"

"Not yet. I came here to talk to Neal."

"Then we'd better go to the hospital. Come on, you're riding with me. I'll call Diana and get a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Mitchell."

**A/N Does the style of attack make more sense now? A little more credible?  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So this blasted cold has made me ahead of schedule again, and I'm stuck indoors while the sun is shining and the world continues on without me. So, you can benefit from this boredom and get another chapter :) The reviews have been great and I have seriously had to consider going to RAA aka Reviews Addicts Anonymous! Note: this is a longer chapter than normal, but I couldn't really find any good breaks in it. So! Enjoy :)**

Neal woke up with a crick in his neck, groaned, and blinked owlishly. According to the sickly green numbers of the digital clock on the opposite wall, it was 9:04. He had dozed off in the small chair with his legs curled up tightly for warmth and his head leaning to one side. As he blinked the last cobwebs of sleep away, he noticed that he was still holding Shannon's hand. A quick self-exam revealed that he had apparently looked pathetic enough for a nurse to tuck a blanket around him. Neal yawned and stretched until he heard his back pop. Despite everything, he had slept enough to feel that he could take on another day … right after a shot of caffeine.

Carefully unfolding himself from the chair, he stood slowly and looked down at Shannon, searching for any change from the night before. Her cheeks had some color to them, and she looked less like she was dying and more like she was sleeping. Neal approved. He neatly folded his blanket into a small square, deposited it on the chair and left the room, taking care to avoid all her monitors and their accompanying cords. The bright, glaring hallway lights made him squint as he looked around for the men's bathroom. The two police officers from last night had been replaced. Two fresh faces greeted him. Or, more accurately, two fresh tops of heads greeted him. Both officers were absorbed in their reading material and neither looked up.

"Hey, could you point me to the nearest restroom?"

"Down the hall and around the corner to your left," the younger cop said in a bored voice. He didn't even look up from his magazine.

Neal was glad for this. The events of yesterday and last night had really taken the starch out of his collar, and now that he was fully awake, he knew he'd be hovering between "crappy" and "barely functional" until he got some coffee in him. On entering the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror and saw that he looked like it, too. He took care of business, washed his hands, and tried to make himself a little more presentable. A quick, wet finger-comb partially slicked back his hair. After straightening his tie and fixing his collar, he splashed cold water on his face and wandered back down the hall towards the elevator. The staff, in their mercy, left him alone.

He was the only person in the car, so he stretched his arms as high as he could, touched his toes several times, and loosened his back for the entire ride down. The door dinged at the lobby level and he headed to the cafe. Usually Neal avoided hospital food and coffee, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The neon "Open" sign was flickering and a couple of the little neon dots had burned out. Despite the medium-sized crowd inside, he wasn't expecting much, but the counter set-up was a pleasant surprise. The place boasted a full coffee bar, and a bunch of freshly-made sandwiches, croissants and Danishes were lined up and ready to go in a refrigerated glass case. Neal could smell pancakes cooking somewhere, and the walls of the café were lined with plush booths. The line moved fast, and soon he was at the counter.

The man working the register grinned at him. He wore a dress shirt and slacks under his apron, his full beard was neatly trimmed, and he oozed class. Not wealth, but definitely class. "First time here?" he asked.

Neal nodded. "Yeah. I, um, I wasn't expecting this."

"Most don't. I've had enough bad café food to last me a lifetime, so I decided to fix that. What better place to do it than a hospital, right? What can I get started for you today, sir?"

"A double macchiato, please."

"Coming right up. Make yourself comfortable."

Neal walked over to the nearest empty booth and settled down with a sigh. It was definitely more comfortable than the chair in Shannon's room upstairs. Perhaps he could borrow this.

"Here you go, sir," the man behind the counter said, coming over with his drink. He set it on the table before Neal. "Total comes to $1.75."

Neal's eyebrows went up. "That's it?"

"That's it," the man said gently. He thumbed behind him at a small corner table. "Sugar's over there if you need it."

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." Neal didn't need any sugar. He paid the man, took his drink, and headed out of the café to the elevators. Maybe he could find Shannon's doctor and learn if she was doing any better before the NYPD finally got the message that he wasn't supposed to be here, and threw him out. He stepped into the elevator car and absently pressed the button for Shannon's floor, still sipping his macchiato, and waited for the doors to close.

The gap between the doors was a foot wide when pounding footsteps and a frantic cry of, "Wait, hold the elevator!" jolted him out of his daze. He hit the button to open the doors and was soon joined by a breathless doctor in a freshly ironed white lab coat. Neal hit the button to close the doors, let the passenger select the floor right below the ICU, and waited, expecting a "thank you." None came.

So Neal turned to his fellow passenger. "Good morning," he said.

A stone face looked up at him. The man was about the height of Detective Marcelo. "Hello," was the terse reply.

Neal tried to cut the tension. "First day on the job?" he teased.

And the man finally sensed that something was amiss with his behavior. He relaxed slightly and ticked a nervous grin at Neal. "Sorry. Uh, no. Well, um, sort of. I have my first solo exam in fifteen minutes."

"Oh, what do you do?"

"I'm a gynecologist."

"Ah."

Silence fell over the elevator car. The door finally opened and the nervous doctor got out and headed for the big pair of massive double doors opposite the elevator. As the doctor was walking away, Neal looked above the doors and caught sight of the wing's name.

Radiology.

Neal winced. The poor guy was so nervous that he'd gotten off on the wrong floor. Then again, maybe Gynecology was somewhere beyond Radiology. He wasn't familiar enough with the hospital to be sure. He silently wished the doctor good luck as the door closed, and it opened moments later on Shannon's floor. Just as he exited the car and headed for the ICU doors, the NYPD officer on duty was ending a call on his cell phone.

As Neal went to open the door, the cop stopped him.

"Sir, I'm sorry. I've just been informed that the FBI has been pulled off this case. You have no authority to be here."

He felt his heart quicken just a beat. "It has?" He let his brow crease and his lips part just slightly in confusion. "Why haven't I heard?" Then he feigned realization, keeping his gaze on the floor and putting a hand on his neck as he sighed and answered his own question. "Damn it. My phone. It's been off all night." He made eye contact with the young officer. "Do you know why we've been pulled off the case?"

The man nodded sympathetically. "Turf war. The NSA came in and took over. We just found out about it ourselves. Do you want to go gather your things?"

"Yes, please." The cop escorted him through the heavy doors, and he smiled to himself. They'd let him in one last time, which meant he had one last chance to get some information before he had to go.

The officer held the door open and Neal walked into Shannon's room.

"Thanks. Oh, by the way, do you have the time?" Neal asked over his shoulder.

The officer checked his watch. "9:30, sir."

Neal nodded briskly and quickly reached the little sink area in the corner opposite Shannon's bed, where he'd laid out his coat across a small rolling table. He reached into the right front pocket and held down the side button to turn on his Blackberry, slightly chagrined as he did so. He was seriously late. And Peter had to be at June's by now, most likely seriously pissed off at repeatedly getting Neal's voicemail. But the pressure was on to eke out just one last little bit of information about Shannon's prognosis before the NYPD had to officially declare him _persona non grata_, so contacting Peter would just have to take a back seat right now. One job at a time.

"Has the NSA made any progress with the investigation?" he asked casually. The officer sighed and started to answer him, but Neal could only feign paying attention; he'd spotted a great prize. A small cardboard shoebox full of Shannon's belongings had been placed on the floor right under the rolling table. A small beaded purse glittered on top. He couldn't believe his luck. It would be incredibly easy to smuggle this out of the room. Sure, the FBI had absolutely no business looking at it, but Dr. Sydney _had_ put him in charge of Shannon's things, so he decided that would be his excuse if he got caught. He made a small show of fumbling with his pea coat and dropping it on the floor, using the opportunity to spread it across the top of the box. He gathered up everything in his arms and started confidently towards the guard.

"… so the bottom line is, they haven't," the officer finished. "Not that they would bother to keep us lowly bodyguards in the loop," he groused. "Everything I know about the case, I found out from the last shift."

Neal nodded at the cop with weary disgust, like he too was just an ordinary Joe caught up in this mad, mad world, and wasn't that disrespect from an outside agency a cryin' shame. Just then, voices rose outside in the hall. The young cop held up a hand to Neal in one of those official-looking, "stay put for your own safety" gestures, and unlatched the gun at his hip with his other hand as he jogged out of the room. The door swung shut. Neal peered out the small window. Two nurses were arguing loudly over a chart outside, and the cop was heading over to them. He wouldn't get a better chance.

He slipped out of the room and headed down the hallway away from the scene, hoping to find Dr. Sydney and maybe get some more news on the patient, only to see someone sporting a white doctor's coat disappear around the corner. Neal followed. If nothing else, perhaps this person could tell him where Dr. Sydney was. As he came around the bend, he saw the doctor hurrying to push open a door and disappear inside. That wouldn't have made any impression on Neal … were it not for the fact that he recognized the doctor.

Neal stopped dead. It was that lost, nervous gynecologist who'd accidentally gotten off at Radiology a few minutes ago. And now, he was on the ICU floor. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. Clearly this man was an impostor, but what was his game?

And then, out of the blue, he put it together. It was the old trick of ignoring a conundrum and letting your subconscious work at it. Neal had been letting go of the night Shannon almost died very hard, and this mental breathing room paired with the sighting just now gave his memory a sudden jog. He let the images hit him flash by flash, and suddenly the hazy events of that night were crystal clear. The faces he could almost remember but not quite snapped into focus. Little details like the type of buttons on their jackets came back to him. He once again knew the number of little creases around Shannon's eyes when she'd made her silent plea for help.

The "gynecologist" was the same man who had pushed his drink aside at the bar.

Reeling from this information, he turned on his heel and quickly headed back towards the part of the ICU under armed protection. He made it about five steps before the very cold barrel of a gun was jabbed into his side.

"Don't make a sound." The short man hissed through his teeth. "Back this way."

Neal turned, not sure where to go.

"In there." The man pushed him over to a nearby door. Neal slowly walked into a small storage closet, taking care to stop shy of the buckets and mops at the back. He turned around, still holding his coat and the box full of Shannon's belongings, and looked straight into the eyes of the man who had started all of this. His jaw ticked when he realized what was about to happen.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said tightly, putting some convincing fear in his eyes and trying to look as harmless as possible.

"Shut up and turn around."

Neal didn't know what to expect. Maybe he'd have pity and just lock him in? He sighed and made sure to shake a little bit as he followed the order, trying to tip the odds in his favor.

The blow took him by surprise. Neal slumped to the ground with a moan, and the door snicked shut.

Xxxxx

Peter knew Mozzie was really worried about Neal. It was the only reason he would ever ride in a Fed's car. He didn't go quietly, though. Five minutes from the hospital, Mozzie was still muttering about the secret tracking and monitoring capabilities of Peter's Taurus. Peter had been ignoring the paranoid rambling for most of their trip.

"Is this car bugged? What am I saying? Of course it's bugged. It's probably measuring my heartbeat and blood pressure right now and putting it on record for when they give me an LDT." Moz was sweating profusely and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Peter looked at him. "What? LDT?"

"Lie detector test."

"Ah. Well, I'd think a man of your capabilities could…"

"Pass the test? Oh, you couldn't be more right on that one, until now. If the car's bugged, and of course _you_ wouldn't tell me if it was, they just got all of my biometric readings from the secret measuring instruments in the front seat."

Peter rolled his eyes. As annoying as it was, he knew that the little guy was just trying to distract him. Diana was currently getting the arrest warrant for Dr. Mitchell, so they'd be ready to go find him once they collected Neal from the hospital, but while Peter was silent about it and Mozzie was very vocal, they were both stewing about Neal. It was now 9:50 and there was still no word from him. Neal had a laundry list of faults, but tardiness and a lack of common courtesy weren't on it. If he'd been able, he would have braved a few minutes in the cold winter air and made a phone call … which meant that for some reason, he wasn't. Just the idea of Neal being incapacitated in some way made Peter's guts twist, so he allowed Mozzie's eloquent ranting and raving to distract him once again.

"Not only do they have that, but they now know how far they can torture me before my body can't handle any more. … What?" The little man blinked behind his glasses, interrupted by Peter's glare.

"Are you finished?"

"I most certainly am not. I'm only here because of Neal and –"

"You're not going to let me forget it. Yeah, I got that part."

Mozzie opened his mouth to rebut.

"And before you continue, we're here," Peter said as he put the car in park. He'd pulled into one of the spaces reserved for police and emergency vehicles. Mozzie blasted out of the Taurus and ran into the building before Peter could even get the key out of the lock. It said a lot about Mozzie and Neal's friendship that Mozzie was willingly running headlong into a hospital after him. When Peter finally caught up to his passenger in the lobby, the elevator doors had already started to close. He ducked into the elevator beside Mozzie, breathing a little hard from his run through the icy air.

"Here's an idea. When you think someone's in danger, hold the elevator for the guy with the badge."

"Oh, right, like I want to be associated with Suits. Can you imagine the stain on my record if that got out?"

Peter ignored the first remark, because he curious about the second. "Criminals keep records?"

"Nope." Mozzie pressed his lips together and refused to say any more on the topic.

The elevator opened on the ICU floor to reveal an antsy "lawyer" and a frazzled agent.

"For the record, I hate hospitals," Mozzie muttered as he passed by Peter to enter the Critical Care Wing. Peter rolled his eyes as he followed. Silence descended on the hallway as everyone stopped to look at them. One of the cops posted by Shannon's room was very agitated as he approached them, accurately sizing Peter up as someone with information.

"Do you know where Agent Neal Caffrey is?" he asked, voice deep and serious.

Peter flashed his badge. "That's why I'm here, actually. Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. And Caffrey's not an agent, he's a consultant."

"But you trust him, right?"

Talk about a loaded question. Peter nodded.

"Well, Agent Burke, he came in here to gather his belongings and then he disappeared, along with some evidence."

Peter sighed. Leave it to Neal… He could feel a headache starting. "What did he take?"

"He walked out with a box of items belonging to Shannon Gregory. I don't know what his interest was with the box, but as far as I know, the FBI isn't allowed to have it, and we've been looking for him for fifteen minutes. We haven't been able to find him. Gave his description to security downstairs, and they didn't see him leave the building."

Peter's eyes narrowed as he ran them over all the faces in the room. "Who was the last person to see him?"

The cop standing in front of him responded. "I was, sir. At first I thought he just took his coat and left, but when I saw Miss Gregory's things were missing, we all started looking for him."

Peter felt a pang of pity for the young officer. This goof-up on his watch was not going to look good in his file, especially since walking away with stolen goods was a big part of Neal's skill set. Peter put his hands on his hips. "All right, look, I know this is going to be difficult for you to swallow, but Neal's not the bad guy. He probably didn't go far. What was happening when you last saw him?"

The officer hoisted his pants up a little as he explained. "Well, I was told the FBI was no longer working the case and I had to escort _Mr._ Caffrey out. He asked to collect his things. I walked him into Miss Gregory's room, because, you know, he spent the night at her bedside. Anyway, he was walking over to get his coat when I heard two nurses going at it outside, so I went to talk to them about the noise, and when I walked back into the room, he was gone. We've searched the whole floor and the adjoining rooms. Nothing."

Peter glanced back at Mozzie to get his take on this, when he noticed that Mozzie had disappeared into the nurse's break room, and was rummaging around. Peter kept his face calm and continued to interview the officers. That man was a damn liability, but thankfully he hadn't introduced him or made it clear that they were here together, otherwise this could have turned ugly.

"Did you check all the restrooms? I mean in the whole building, not just on this floor."

The cop raised his eyebrows at that suggestion, and walked away pulling out his radio. Peter turned and entered Shannon's room. A doctor stood there at her bedside, checking the chart. He glanced up at Peter.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Peter dutifully flashed his badge again. "Yeah. FBI. I'm looking for Neal Caffrey. Have you seen him recently?"

"Is that the guy the cops have been searching for? No, I haven't, but word is, the FBI has no jurisdiction here." The doctor sounded bored and went back to scribbling something on the chart.

"I'm not here regarding Miss Gregory's case. Just here to collect my consultant."

"Oh. Well, sorry I can't be of more help. We've been very busy, what with that big car accident early this morning." His tone was cold as ice, and Peter started getting a funny feeling about this guy. The famous Burke Gut was at work. He decided to test it.

"How is she?" he asked, motioning at Shannon.

"Better. We expect her to wake soon, and then we'll take it from there."

Peter nodded. "Good, good. Listen, I might not be working the case anymore, but I have to thank you doctors for saving her life. That was excellent work. What was your name again?" He gave the doctor a subtle once-over, looking for a name tag.

"Oh, I forgot to put this on." The man pulled it out of his pocket and fussed with the clip, keeping most of the letters out of view. "Dr. Angelo Sydney. I hope you find Mr. Caffrey." It was less of a well-wish and more of a curt dismissal.

Peter backed out into the hallway. The cop was talking to one of the nurses, who looked flustered.

"Did you find Caffrey yet?" he interrupted.

"No," said the cop.

The nurse butted in, "Agent, I just checked the drug lock-up, and there's enough morphine missing from the rack to knock out a horse. There's no reason for it to be gone. No one can account for it."

Dr. Sydney walked past just then, head turned away from them, heading briskly down the hallway and around the bend. The nagging feeling in Peter's gut was coalescing into something real and pressing. He eased away from the crowd and followed the doctor just closely enough to see the door to the storage room close. Instinct had him pulling his gun as he quickly opened the door. For a moment he was relieved. Neal was standing there, squinting in the sudden light. He looked slightly dizzy and unhappy about things, but otherwise no worse for wear, and Peter lowered his weapon.

"Neal, thank God. What happened?"

As Peter pushed the door open wider, he saw the muzzle of a gun press into Neal's temple, and there was no need for Neal to explain.

"Back away. I am leaving this hospital a free man," said a voice in the darkness.

Peter raised his weapon again, and Neal indicated his approval with a small nod. "We've got you, Dr. Mitchell. It's over," Peter announced.

The man started at the use of his real name. "How did…"

"Your tag says Angela," Peter said flatly. "And we know that you put the word out on Shannon Gregory."

"Lower your weapon, Agent Burke, or you'll be wiping your consultant's grey matter off the back shelf. And you better call off the NYPD. Back up." The man motioned him back with a short jerk of his other hand, and Peter slowly did so.

Neal sighed. "Have I mentioned how much I hate guns?"

"Shut up. And you, kick your weapon down the hallway." He ordered. "_Now_," he growled out, pressing the muzzle hard into Neal's temple when Peter didn't immediately respond. The FBI agent ruefully put his weapon on the ground, not once losing eye contact with his wincing consultant, and slid it down the hallway.

"What did you do to Shannon?" Neal asked quietly.

"I made sure that she'll never snitch on me. Don't worry, she's gone peacefully. But _you_. You just had to figure everything out, didn't you?" He shoved the gun hard against Neal's aching head again, and manhandled him out of the closet. Neal stumbled. "Ha? Didn't you?"

"Well, maybe if you hadn't been such an idiot about the whole thing, it would have gone more smoothly. What'd she do to you, anyway?" Neal pressed back with his words as he regained his balance. He couldn't see the dentist, but his gaze was ice cold anyway.

"Neal," Peter warned, and shook his head. Honestly, sometimes he wanted to just shake the kid.

Fortunately, Mitchell wasn't paying attention to Neal. "Get out of here right now," he commanded Peter. "We're going, and you're not following." He waited for Peter to put his hands up and slowly back around the corner before dragging Neal backwards to the stairwell, using him as a shield.

Peter called out to get everyone's attention as he bolted for the nurse's station. "Check on Shannon Gregory immediately! Officer, call off everybody in the lobby and tell them to get out of sight. We have an armed man heading down the east stairwell, and he's taken a hostage. Get your guys to watch all the exits, and call for back-up right away." The cop nodded, and Peter was about to run for the stairwell when Mozzie burst out of Shannon's room, breathless and holding a syringe, to the fluttery surprise of a few nurses.

"Suit, I saved her! Go!"

Peter ran.

**A/N: Okie dokie! *rubs hands together* It's starting to get fun now! **


	8. Chapter 8

Neal was huffing for breath as the dentist hurried him along. They were on the fifth floor, and the gun's barrel had been shoved painfully into his back every time he slowed down.

"Ok, stop," Mitchell said finally.

Neal halted in relief and chanced a look behind him. The man was sweating profusely, already soaking through the doctor's coat. His eyes darted along all the doorways.

"We go out through here." He motioned to the door and Neal finally realized why the man wanted this floor. They weren't going to the lobby. The fifth floor had a semi-enclosed walkway that connected their wing to another building. They just had to walk across the bridge and then they'd head down to the garage or out some other door, and Neal would be stuck with this guy for God only knew how long.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked as they stepped out into the bitter wind. He was freezing. He'd left his coat behind in the closet with all of Shannon's stuff.

"The goddamn woman showed up 10 minutes early for her exam. She saw something she shouldn't have seen. I couldn't take the chance of her talking."

Despite the cold, despite the headache, despite the gun poking him in the back, Neal managed to be puzzled by this logic. "That's a bit … over the top."

"Shut up and walk."

Mitchell jabbed him in the back again and they jogged across to the other side. Neal went to open the door when Mitchell stopped him.

"Hold up. What's that?" He gestured at Neal's left leg with the gun.

"What's what?" Then Neal looked down innocently, and smiled his best "screw you" smile at Mitchell. "Oh, this little thing? That's my tracking anklet." He watched Mitchell's face go through several levels of realization and horror. "I'm a criminal, so I have to wear this. And I believe you've met Agent Burke? Yeah, he's my handler. Oh, and I forgot to mention: he's got this incredible app on his phone that can pull up my movements in real time. It's accurate to within a meter." Grade-A quality BS, if he did say so himself, and it did exactly what he intended. The dentist's grip on the gun went slack and he shook with rage.

"You son of a…" Darius Mitchell never got to complete his thought. Neal ran at him and knocked him off his feet with a shoulder charge. The gun went off and a wild shot sent a slug harmlessly into the cement somewhere as Mitchell hit the ground, his breath abandoning him with a whoosh. Neal kicked the gun out of his hand, ran to pick it up while the dentist was moaning, spun back around and aimed it with deadly accuracy as Peter came running out onto the windy walkway, followed by a couple of cops.

The warm grip of the gun was uncomfortably natural in Neal's grasp as he watched them swarm in and arrest the dentist lying on the floor. He couldn't move, though. All he could do was try to catch his breath and hold the gun on Mitchell. Peter approached from where Neal could clearly see him, and held out his hand.

"Neal, give me the gun," he said gently. "It's okay. We got him, and Shannon's safe," he soothed as he gently prized the weapon from Neal's fingers. The words were starting to penetrate, and he relaxed.

As Peter took the gun from him, Neal bent forward and put his hands on his knees. He knew he probably looked crazed. His hair had fallen into his eyes and his pale skin and rumpled clothes didn't help. But the full weight of Peter's words finally sank in and he came back to earth with a soft, relieved smile and straightened up. It was over. Peter smiled, too. He threw a warm arm over Neal's shoulder and led him away from the clamoring scene, back to the safety of the building.

"Nice job," Peter murmured as they made their way back up the stairs. "What did you do?"

"Tackled him," Neal said with a shrug.

"Did you play football in high school?"

"Nah. Track. I was a long-distance runner," Neal added with an impish grin.

"Talk about training for later life," Peter responded with a snort. Now that the chaos was over, he steered Neal out of the flow of traffic on the stairs and stopped their progress for a second to give him a quick once-over. He frowned. "Okay, when we get up there, I'll get someone to take a look at you." Neal opened his mouth to protest but Peter shut him down. "Don't _even_ argue with me. You're dizzy. Did he hurt you?"

"He clocked me with his gun," Neal admitted. The look on Peter's face had him backtracking immediately. "Peter, it was no big deal. I didn't lose consciousness or anything. I just have a headache."

Peter still didn't look pleased. "Have you eaten today?"

"Does coffee count?"

Peter shook his head "no." "So after you get a check-up, I'll get your coat, then we can get out of here and have some breakfast, and _then_ you get to explain why the hell you didn't tell me where you were in the first place." He gave Neal a little push between his shoulder blades to get him moving up the stairs. "And you're late, by the way."

"Late?"

"Yes, late. I was supposed to pick you up at 9. At June's. This isn't June's."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Nice work, Sherlock. No, we're not at June's. But, you will note, we're still inside my radius." He held out his arms as though accepting accolades from an adoring audience, and smiled brightly.

Peter shook his head as a grin tried to wiggle onto his face. "What am I gonna do with you? Come on, keep moving. It's cold."

"How'd you figure it out?" Neal asked as they slowly climbed the stairs to the next floor.

"I realized that the mob, or the NSA for that matter, was way too pro to pull a sloppy hit like that. Moz had the same idea. He filled in the blanks on the way to the hospital," said Peter.

"Mozzie's here?"

"Not for much longer." They both looked up. Neal's friend stood on the next landing, hands in his pockets, watching them climb. He smiled. "You should thank me, by the way. Due to the quick thinking of yours truly, Ms. Shannon Gregory was spared enough morphine to, and I quote, 'Knock out a horse.'"

Neal effortlessly got him started with a faint smile and a look of interest. "What did you do, Mozzie?"

"Oh, nothing too complicated. I just slipped in through the shared bathroom. You know, these criminals really need to think outside of the box. I mean, if I had to pull off something like this, then I would…" He stopped abruptly as both Peter and Neal smirked at him. With a little "hmph!" he trotted off down the stairs, heading for the lobby.

"You know, I think that one day I might just start to understand him," Peter said slowly, his gaze following the top of Mozzie's bald head as he disappeared.

"I still don't." Neal stumped up the final few steps to the recently vacated landing, and pushed the stairwell door open. The moment his feet hit the tile of the 6th floor, he called out in woozy delight, "Peter, there's an elevator!"

Peter just shook his head.

When they got back to the critical care wing, police and nurses and doctors were swarming everywhere. It was loud in the hall, and he could tell that Neal was getting a little overwhelmed, so Peter put a hand on his consultant's shoulder and guided him through the mess into an empty room up the hall from Shannon's.

"I'll go get a doctor. Sit. Stay."

Neal had no witty retort and just waved him off. For once, he didn't have to be told to sit still. First he hopped up on the hospital bed and sat down. Then he looked at the inviting pillows and stretched out on his back with a sigh, telling himself he was only going to rest for a minute. The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. He blinked up at the apologetic face of Dr. Sydney.

"Hi, there, Mr. Caffrey. Gotta do the 'doctor' thing. I hear you've had quite the morning." Neal attempted a charming smile and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He saw Peter standing in the corner of the room, holding his pea coat. "How are you feeling?" she asked, pulling him slowly into a sitting position.

Neal looked back at her. "Well, much better, now that you're here." She blushed as she pulled out a small penlight and checked his pupils.

"You're insufferable." Peter grumbled.

"And this is Special Agent Peter Burke. It's Peter's job to be a grouch," he said seriously.

"Mm hmm, I bet," said Dr. Sydney, a smile playing around her lips. She coaxed him with her hands. "Lean forward for me a little bit, please." Neal did so, and she gently palpated the back of his head, keeping an eye on his face. He winced as she pressed on a tender spot, and she let him back up. "Okay, well, your reflexes are fine. And Peter told me you didn't lose consciousness. Is that true?" Neal nodded. "Good. You have a tiny bump back here, but I'm not seeing any signs of a concussion. Just put some ice on it when you get home, take some Tylenol if you need to, and take it easy for the next day or so. You'll be back to saving anonymous damsels in no time."

"Please don't encourage him," Peter said flatly.

Dr. Sydney smiled and patted Neal's knee. "That was good work, Mr. Caffrey. And now I have to try to explain to my superiors how that no-good dentist got a hold of my ID badge, so I'll leave you guys to your business. See you later." She smiled as she exited the room.

The moment she was gone, Neal turned to Peter. "She likes me."

"You think every woman likes you."

"I don't 'think' it. It's a fact," Neal said with utter assurance. Then his belly started growling. He threw his arms around his middle in a vain attempt to muffle the noise, much to Peter's amusement, and he blushed faintly. "Can we eat now?"

Peter nodded. Neal took a moment to tuck in his shirt properly and put on the pea coat that Peter was holding out to him, and they headed back down to the café. Ten minutes later, they were melting into the upholstered booth seats and digging into a proper, if very late, breakfast. Two cups of coffee steamed on the table. Peter snarfed his ham and cheese croissant as Neal tore into a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and two pancakes with maple syrup.

After a few minutes of silent, blissful devotion to this task, Neal sighed in satisfaction and looked at Peter. The agent was giving him a funny look.

Peter shrugged. "You're acting like you haven't eaten since… Wait a minute. You haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. I got you Taco Bell last night, and you turned your nose up at the food."

"Yeah, well, calling that 'food' was a gross exaggeration," Neal said. "Besides, I've been busy. Do you want to head back up to Shannon's room after we're done here?" There was still more to eat, but he put down his fork for a moment.

In response, Peter held up a hand.

"Wait. Neal, we have got to talk about this. More specifically, we have to talk about Shannon." Neal didn't like Peter's tone, but he listened. "Her life could still be in danger. We stirred up a hornet's nest and destroyed her private investigation. She should still go into WitSec."

Neal sighed. "No way, Peter, she'll never go for that."

Peter blinked. "You've gotta be kidding me. Are you even listening to yourself? Neal, you don't know this girl. You met her, what, two days ago? And she's been unconscious for most of it, I might add." When there was no answer, he let his frustration show. "Neal … wake up. She's not Kate."

Neal physically pulled back into the padded seat behind him. Even though he could tell Peter was already regretting those words, he didn't care. He set his jaw and crossed his arms.

His voice dipped low. Now was the time to be calm and rational, despite everything that was itching to get out. "I _know_ she's not Kate. But she's…" He blew out a breath and adjusted his argument. "We spent the last 48 hours delving into her life, looking at things she probably hasn't shared with anyone. She went after the mob, Peter. She investigated her father's death despite dirty cops pulling strings to keep her in the dark. _She_ persevered when most people would quit. You're right, I haven't had a lot of conversations with her, but I know what she's made of, and someone like that would not be happy going into hiding." He looked down at his plate, realized his appetite was gone, stood up, and stalked out of the café.

Peter sighed and let him go. Neal still had a good chunk of breakfast left. The café manager passed by with an armful of dirty plates, and Peter asked him for a doggy bag.

After boarding the elevator for what felt like the thousandth time, he was greeted by the young cop from earlier, who bent the rules and let him go into Shannon's room. He even shut the door behind him. But despite the satisfaction of closing this case, the murder of Agent Gregory was still unsolved, and that bothered Neal. He sat down next to her bed and took her hand into his.

"Listen, I…" He faltered and tried again. "Shannon, I failed you. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me." He gave her hand a quick squeeze and laid it gently back down at her side.

Just then, Peter pushed open the door and knocked on the frame. Neal looked over at him. "Diana just called. She said that Mitchell was hurting for cash and decided to try his hand at prescription drug fraud and smuggling it on the black market. Apparently he was meeting with someone and Shannon came in early and overheard the conversation. He doesn't know if she knows, but he couldn't take any chances."

Neal shook his head in disgust. "There are so many smarter ways to make money."

"Yeah, not to mention lots of _legal_ ways," Peter said pointedly.

"But not as fun. By the way, how did Mozzie save her?"

"The nurse said he pulled the tube free from her IV before any morphine could reach her system."

"Quick thinking," Neal agreed, but his tone was clipped and he pinned Peter with a flinty gaze.

"Um, about my comment earlier." Peter paused and pursed his lips. He didn't know what to say from here, really. Emotional stuff wasn't his thing.

Neal took pity on him. "Hey, don't worry. Heat of moment. I get it."

"Yeah, that's … yeah. We'll go with that. Listen, you should go home and get some real rest. I, uh, I got all your food packed up, so you can take it with you." He held up a bag with a plastic takeaway container inside, wiggling it enticingly. Neal said nothing, and didn't move. "… Or you could stay put."

"I think I'll do the second thing."

Peter sighed, knowing he was beat. He crossed the room, set Neal's food down on the rolling table, and then headed back for the door. "Fine, you win. Just try to get a nap, okay? I'll be back for you once all the paperwork and jurisdictional crap is taken care of."

"All right." The door shut behind Peter and Neal sighed and hung his head.

Peter didn't do "subtle" very well, but he was right. Neal knew he'd screwed up. He'd made the classic mistake of hitching himself to another person. People, as Mozzie had once famously said to him, were trouble. And he hadn't just fallen for a woman, oh no, he'd fallen for an _imaginary_ woman. His handler's argument was absolutely on point. He didn't really know Shannon Gregory at all. To make things worse, reading people was his business, and he generally managed to stay aloof and inscrutable. So to screw up, be read that easily, and then reprimanded by Peter, of all people, was really annoying. This whole mess wouldn't have gotten so close to his poor, battered heart had he not made such a totally dumb move. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Peter's words came back to him.

_She's not Kate._

And she wasn't. He sat there taking deep breaths and trying to master himself and fight down the sorrow, so he wouldn't completely freak out and lose it in a stranger's hospital room. Somehow along the way, Shannon had become Kate, and saving her would somehow do the impossible and bring back the woman he loved. He didn't know exactly when he crossed that particular loopy line of reasoning, but now that the case was mostly closed, the reality of Kate being gone was closing in again. He could feel that ache in his spirit settling in painfully, no matter what he thought about to distract himself.

"God, I hate this," he said to nobody, and put his face in his hands.

The grief, the sadness, the thousand flittering, trivial, unhelpful thoughts, the falsely hopeful what ifs and maybes… When all the horrors that he regularly pushed away came home to roost, and the truth pierced through all the lies he told himself to get through the day, it was hard. But he was in a public place, and a high-traffic area. He didn't have the luxury of sinking into despair and going off the deep end. That would never do.

_She's not Kate. _

Somehow, some way, he would move on. But not before Kate's killer had paid in full for his heinous crime. That would be the only way for him to be able to push past the guilt, push past the pain he felt every morning when he realized he would never be able to gaze into her beautiful eyes, or touch her, or talk to her ever again. If he had to spend his life in that pursuit … hell, if he had to _give_ his life in that pursuit … then so be it.

When he raised his head again, he was surprised to lock eyes with a strong gray gaze.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey!" He smiled.

Shannon did not smile back. Her eyes were wide with confusion and terror, and she clearly had no idea who he was. Her heart rate shot through the roof, her gag reflex kicked in, and she started to buck the ventilator and panic. Neal tried to calm her, but she jerked her hand from his grasp and continued to fight. The monitors were screaming and the nurses came running. Neal backed out of the way into the corner of the room as they flocked in to treat her.

"Easy, easy, darlin'," said one of them, who injected something into her IV. "Just relax, now."

It took a few minutes for the medication to kick in, but eventually she was calm enough to have the ventilator removed. Neal cautiously approached the bed, and Shannon allowed him to take her hand. She was able to blow out hard enough to help the nurses pull the tube from her throat, and once it was free, she coughed weakly.

"Good job," Neal said, and she looked at him again with something like recognition.

"All right, we're gonna give you something to wet your whistle." the first nurse said, as another noted the time and scribbled something on Shannon's chart. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty. Sore," she croaked.

"Are you in pain?"

Shannon closed her eyes, and for a second Neal thought she wasn't going to reopen them.

"Yes, but it's not too bad." She attempted a small smirk. "What happened?"

"A lot of things," the nurse said with a smile. "I'll let your boyfriend fill you in. He's hardly left your bedside." She nodded at Neal, who was trying not to look too embarrassed. "Just go easy on her, okay? Here are some ice chips for her. I'm going to see if I can extradite Dr. Sydney from her interrogation, so she can have a look at you, Miss Gregory. I'll be right back." She left the cup of ice chips on the bedside table and walked out.

Shannon peered at Neal, and Neal knew why. Shannon wore contacts (it said so on her chart), and obviously the ICU personnel had taken them out on her arrival. He imagined he was probably a blur to her.

"Rick?" she asked as her eyes landed upon Neal. Neal leaned in so he was no longer blurry. "You're…" Disappointment filled her gaze.

"Not Rick. I know. They keep thinking we're a couple." He smiled. "Here, have some ice chips."

She allowed him to spoon them into her mouth. A few swallows later, she had enough of her thoughts together to remember something. "I know you, I think."

"Well, not that well," Neal hedged. "My name is –"

"Peppermint schnapps guy. I remember."

He smiled and fed her some more chips. "Yeah, that's what my ID says: Peppermint Schnapps Guy. So, who's Rick? We didn't know about him, so we haven't notified him about what happened to you. Should I call him? What's his number?" He reached into his pocket for his cell.

She closed her eyes in regret. "No, forget it. He was my boyfriend a couple of years ago, but I … I got obsessed with something, and I crapped it all up. We drifted apart." She paused. Then she turned her sharply captivating gray stare back on him. "What would bring a random customer to the bedside of a bartender who can't even remember why she's lying in bed in the first place?" Her voice was quiet and steady, but her tight jaw betrayed her fear.

Neal took off his coat and lay it down on the end of the bed, and then settled himself in the bedside chair again.

"I went back to Allegretto's, and call it good timing, or whatever, but when I got there, two guys were dragging you out into the alleyway. I saw you fight them, and I saw them shoot you."

She twitched slightly. "I got shot? I don't remember."

Neal nodded. "Doctors say that's normal. Probably for the best, anyway."

"You never did answer me. Why do you wear a tracking anklet?"

Her random change of subject surprised Neal. "Well, I'm a…" He shrugged and went for it. "I'm a criminal." There. It was out. She didn't look too worried, so he went on. "Mostly I forged paintings and ran scams. Now I'm out on parole, and I work as a consultant for the FBI. I'm with a White Collar task force here in New York. The Bureau keeps tabs on me, so I have the anklet and a two-mile radius. It's part of the deal."

Shannon blinked in surprise. "Wow. Okay. So, wait, you dragged the Bureau into this?"

"Yes." He held eye contact with her.

"And you took my case?"

"Well, we tried. As, um, as part of the investigation, we went to your apartment." He glanced away before looking back directly at her.

"… And?"

"And, we tried to continue what you'd started," Neal said delicately, "but the NSA took over. As it turns out, though, that's not why you were shot. Someone put a hit out on you."

A more visible tremor went through her left arm. "W-Who?"

"You're going to need to change dentists."

Shannon looked confused.

"Dr. Mitchell is a paranoid crook. He thought you'd overheard something pertaining to one of his illegal activities, and he hired two guys to eliminate you. Fortunately, they had crappy aim, and now he's in FBI custody. Agents are interrogating him as we speak." He conveniently left out the part where Dr. Mitchell had sneaked into the hospital and tried to kill her with the morphine. She didn't need the nightmares that knowledge would bring.

"Oh." She looked exhausted, and every time she blinked it took her longer to reopen her eyes.

"I should let you rest." He started to rise, but she caught him by the arm. Her grasp was surprisingly strong, and her stare was steady despite the tear that slipped down her cheek.

"I don't know you. But could you…" She trailed off. Neal understood. He nodded. Her hand slipped off his arm, and she closed her eyes. Her brow was still crinkled up with anxiety, but it slowly smoothed out as she fell back to sleep. Neal took her hand again and sat back down.

A touch to the shoulder woke him. Peter was standing over him.

"I said take a nap, not practice your human pretzel routine."

Neal looked down at the blanket under his cheek. He'd fallen asleep bent at the waist, with his head on Shannon's bed and her hand still in his.

Slowly straightening up and relaxing his tight muscles, he grinned at Peter. Peter grinned back.

"You can't resist a pretty girl, can you?"

Neal let that comment slide. "She's been awake."

"And?"

"She's scared."

"I can imagine. Getting shot does that to you."

"NSA call yet about WitSec?"

"Nope, still waiting. We should know by tomorrow."

Just then, three raps sounded on the door. It swung open to reveal Agent Jeremy Alston and a younger man with very similar facial features. Neal gently disentangled his hand from Shannon's grasp and stood to join Peter.

Alston scowled at Peter. "Burke, is your phone broken?" he complained. "We spent an hour driving around Brooklyn trying to find the right hospital." Peter started to apologize, but Alston waved him off. "You were too busy mention she was actually in Manhattan all along. I understand. I heard about what happened with Mitchell."

The younger man looked at Shannon briefly, and assured himself that she was sleeping peacefully before addressing Peter and Neal. "'Ello. I'm Rick Alston. I know this is Agent Burke, but you are…?"

"Neal Caffrey." He took Rick's hand and shook it heartily. The man stood two inches taller than Neal. He had a chiseled jaw and the physique of a star quarterback. And the way he stood – he was an FBI agent in the making, if he wasn't carrying a badge already.

"You're the guy who saved her?"

Neal nodded, and then looked back at Shannon. "Someone had to watch out for her."

Peter cleared his throat. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Peter Burke. How are you?"

Rick shook his hand. "Good, good. Boston's finally starting to thaw out. 'Bout time, too. This winter's been awful." Rick's voice was deep and smooth, and Neal couldn't help but be a little irritated by it. "The doctors told us how she's doing, but what happened to her?"

Neal tuned out Peter's summary of the case. At the moment, it was almost too much to even look at Rick. He just wanted to go away and be alone. It was childish to sulk, so he did his best to keep up his calm façade until he could safely excuse himself. He waited until Peter took a breath.

"Well, I've been here for too long, and I stink," he said. The other men smirked. "I need to grab a shower and some sleep. Good to see you, Agent Alston, and Rick, it was nice to meet you. Peter," he acknowledged respectfully, and left the room. He was no longer needed. Rick would step in and be there for Shannon. He was someone she knew and trusted. Walking away was the right move. But as Neal weaved his way through the crowd of afternoon visitors in the lobby and stepped out into the cold New York winter, he couldn't help but feel empty inside. Frustrated, he found the nearest subway entrance and trotted down the steps.

Xxxx

A week and a half later, Neal was pacing back and forth across the floor of his apartment, rhythmically slapping a file folder and wondering what to do. He had wanted to stay out of Shannon's life after her release from the hospital a few days ago, but this information was too important to keep from her. And that was what ultimately made the decision. He pulled out his cell and pressed speed dial one.

"Neal?" Peter answered. "What's up? It's Saturday. You have the day off."

"Yeah, I know. Peter, I need a favor."

"What is it?"

"Can you escort me somewhere outside of my radius?"

"Where?" Peter was suspicious.

"Shannon Gregory's apartment."

A groan. "Neal, I thought you gave up on that."

"I did! I just … I want to say goodbye. I called Allegretto and they told me she quit," he explained.

A gusty sigh came through on the other end. "All right, fine, give me a few minutes."

"I can swing by your place, if that's easier."

It was easier. Neal arrived at Peter's house with the contents of the folder safely folded up and tucked in his jacket pocket. Peter was just locking the door as Neal jogged up the steps.

"El's got a cold. She's taking a nap, and I don't want to disturb her. Let's go."

"Okay. Um, one more favor. Could you wait in the car when we get there?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sure."

"Thanks."

They climbed into the Taurus and headed for the address. "Just do yourself a favor and don't flirt too hard," Peter advised him along the way.

"This is different, Peter. You don't need to give me the speech."

Peter had already sensed this, so he didn't argue. They rode along in comfortable silence until Peter pulled over and parked on her street. "Okay, here we are. You have fifteen minutes before I go in there and get you."

Neal looked over at Peter. "Thank you." Peter nodded. Neal swung open the car door and walked to the apartment building, passing by a mother pushing a heavily bundled toddler in a stroller, and gracefully side-stepping an unfortunate man being walked by his massive dog. A cry of "Heel, Serby, hee-eel!" trailed out behind him. Neal winced. But he'd found the right glass door that peeked into the right lobby. He started to open it when the doorman came running.

"Hello, who are you here to see?" the man asked as he opened the door.

"Shannon Gregory?"

"Oh. She stepped out about twenty minutes ago. She went to get some fresh air … oh, here she comes now." He pointed up the street. There she was, wrapped in a heavy coat, her fiery red hair tucked into a hat and a cheerful knitted scarf around her neck, sitting a wheelchair. Rick was pushing her. Neal nodded in thanks at the doorman and walked towards them. He faltered for a split second before approaching, but he had to give her this information.

"Hi, Shannon." He gave her his best smile.

"Schnapps! Uh, I mean, Neal. Neal, right?" Her grin was unguarded and open. It was contagious.

"Yeah, that's me. How are you? Good to see you, Rick." He grinned as he shook hands with them both.

"I'm good. Recovery has been a little rocky, but it's getting better. Rick's been helping out a lot." She broke free from their shared stare and looked back up Rick, who smiled pleasantly but was doing his best to remain aloof. "I mean, look at him! I said I was going stir crazy and he actually agreed to take me out in this weather. That's dedication."

"No kidding. So, no threat of witness protection. That must feel pretty good."

"The NSA said I didn't need to worry about it anymore." The lightheartedness disappeared, and her guard went back up.

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. Listen, if it's not too much trouble, could I talk to you privately for a moment?"

Shannon looked back up at Rick. "Babe, is that okay?"

Rick looked like he'd rather tightrope between skyscrapers than leave her with a known con artist and thief, but he said, "Sure thing. How about you guys talk in the lobby? Then you'll bring her upstairs in ten minutes." His stare bored into Neal.

Neal swallowed. "Of course."

"Good."

Neal held the door open as Rick pushed Shannon up the handicapped ramp into the lobby of the building, and the doorman shut it behind them. Shannon squeezed Rick's hand and let Neal wheel her over to the seating area near the reception desk, so he could sit on the couch and she could sit across from him. As soon as Rick was gone, she turned serious.

"Okay, what's this about?"

"I have a friend in the information business, and he happened upon this." Neal handed her the papers. "We figured out what the NSA's interest in this case was, and why they shut us down. Apparently, one of their agents infiltrated the Boston mob. And normally this would have been a good thing, but the agent went rogue. He had access to government information, and he used the mob connections he cultivated to get in touch with other crime organizations. He was getting ready to put a lot of sensitive information up for sale overseas to … unfriendly powers. Our investigation into your…" he paused, "shooting, dug up his identity and his activities. The NSA jumped on it immediately and caught him, but they kept the FBI in the dark."

"Why?"

Neal scratched his head. "Um, total embarrassment, would be my best guess. I mean, seriously, a national security agent tries to undermine the security of the nation? Come on. Anyway, they caught the guy, and the man who actually tried to kill you is in custody as well, so either way, witness protection is no longer necessary."

Shannon nodded. "But there's more."

"Yeah." Neal steeled himself. "Shannon, there's enough circumstantial evidence to prove that this NSA agent was the man who murdered your father and mother. Your dad … he was like you. Tenacious. He kept digging into that mob case, even after he retired, and this guy got scared that he would be discovered, so he decided to keep your father from talking."

"You have proof?" she said. Her face was hard, and her jaw was tight.

Neal nodded. "Everything I just handed you is proof. And it's in the hands of NSA's internal review department right now. So, the murder charges will probably be added to this agent's laundry list of a rap sheet, but even if they're not … Shannon, he committed treason. He'll be locked away forever in some terrible, miserable place. You don't have to worry about him."

Shannon looked a bit shell-shocked by all of this, mechanically slipping the folded papers into her coat. "Wow. I … I'm sorry. I just didn't expect to get all these answers, after such a long time looking. Thank you for telling me." Her hardened expression eased a bit.

"Of course. Let's get you up to your apartment."

She nodded. He stood up to grab the handles on her chair, and pushed her a few feet when he heard a sniffle and looked down at her bowed head. He stepped around in front of her, knelt, and gently tipped her face up just a little so he could see her. The tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh, I'm a dead man. Rick will take one look at your face and use me for a punching bag," Neal said seriously. "Here." He handed her his handkerchief.

She began to laugh through her tears, and she blew her nose. "I'm sorry," she said again, and her voice cracked. "I swear, this isn't the way I normally am. I just … I don't know what to do with any of this. I worked so hard and so long to solve the mystery. And now I have the evidence, and the man who killed my parents is going away … but nothing is ever going to bring them back. I have nothing left. This stupid case took over my life, and I pushed everybody away."

Neal took her free hand. "Hey, shh, relax. It's going to be okay. You have so much in front of you, you don't even know. You can go back to school, or back to Maine, or forward to something else, because you're really smart. You'll find something you love to do, and you'll be just fine. But, listen to me, you aren't alone. You have Rick. You have a guy who loves you. You have a guy who came _back_ to you. He's one of the good ones. He's waiting for you upstairs, right now. … And if I don't get you up there in two minutes, he'll probably kill me. We need to go."

She laughed again and wiped her face, and nodded. "All right. I'm sold. Let's get up there."

Neal wheeled her over to the elevators and pressed the button.

She smiled weakly up at him. "Thank you."

Neal leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "No, thank you."

She straightened up to her full sitting height, and despite the wince from her still mending injuries, her steely gaze pinned him.

"For what?"

She wasn't done healing by any means, but Neal had a gut feeling about where she'd end up. He knew, in that moment, that he was looking at a future FBI agent. He just hoped that he wouldn't ever be interrogated by her; he wouldn't stand a chance.

"For one hell of a drink."

She smiled. "You know, we should all get together sometime. You, me, Rick, maybe even Jeremy and Peter, if they want to come. Maybe actually just _talk_ to each other. That might be fun. Oh, and I'll make you something with peppermint schnapps."

"Uh uh. No way," Neal protested as the elevators door opened and he rolled her in. "Not without a disclaimer. People need to know what's involved before they order from you."

She laughed. "Yeah, I'll write one up."

When the door dinged on her floor and he pushed her chair out onto the carpeting, Rick was right there, leaning against the wall. He made a show of checking his watch.

"Nine minutes and thirty seconds. Your life will be spared."

"Rick, play nice," Shannon warned. She took Neal's hand. "Bye, Neal. Take it easy."

Neal squeezed her hand gently. "I'll see you guys around. Stay safe, all right?" He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his escape.

A few minutes later he was back in the Taurus, sitting perfectly still in the front seat as Peter glanced over at him. "Everything go okay?"

Neal nodded. "She's got her whole life in front of her. I'm glad I could help her move on."

"Yeah, the whole investigate-and-get-revenge act can be pretty short-sighted." The subtext of Peter's comment didn't go unnoticed.

Neal wasn't about to rise to the bait, though. "Can we go now?"

"Sure."

Neal looked out the window as they drove past buildings and people and cars, and thought back to Shannon. And Kate.

Even as he thought about his loss, he thought the similarity of his and Shannon's situations, and the truth of her words. Knowledge wouldn't bring anybody back, and the only way out of the mire of grief was forward. It was kind of inspiring to hear that from someone else. It made him think that maybe he could do it, too. Until then, there was plenty of work at the FBI to keep him busy and feeling useful. He just hoped that most of it wasn't mortgage fraud.

Xxxx

Peter parked in front of June's. Neal thanked him, told him to tell Elizabeth to get well soon, and climbed out of the car. As Peter watched Neal nip into June's house, he knew the young man was still sifting through the wreckage of Kate's death and coping as best he could. Neal would pull through this, eventually. Of that, he had no doubt. He just hoped that if they ever found Fowler, Neal would resist the temptation to seek brutal revenge. Then he scoffed and physically shook himself free of the thought. Right. Like Neal, Mr. Let's Not Hurt Anybody, would give up on the healing process, throw all of his progress away, and tear off after Fowler with a gun or something. What a ridiculous idea.

Peter smiled as Neal waved and closed the door, and he headed home. If nothing else, his CI made life very interesting. Sighing softly, he prepared to enjoy a Saturday afternoon feeding his congested beloved some soup, and watching hockey with the dog. There was officially a moratorium on craziness for the next 24 hours.

Xxxx

The next week, more snow arrived. On Wednesday morning, Neal walked into the office a few steps behind Peter and saw something very ostentatious and gift-basket-shaped sitting atop of a pile of mortgage fraud cases on his desk. Diana was smiling at him from her seat, Jones looked curious, and Peter gave the thing a frowning once-over and then took off for his office. Neal draped his heavy, knee-length wool coat over his desk chair, took off his gloves and scarf, ignored everybody's stares, and had a look through the clear plastic. It was indeed a generous woven gift basket full of tasty objects, but it had the look of something very personalized. This wasn't some Harry and David production. This was homemade.

Neatly nestled in the bed of fake straw was an interesting assortment of items: a high-quality stainless steel Nissan Thermos with a tag that announced it as a "leak-proof backpack bottle," a clear plastic bag tied with a silver ribbon that was full of handmade, artisanal peppermint sticks, a white ceramic coffee mug with a picture of a white ceramic coffee mug on it that said "This is a mug" (which made Neal laugh), a box of quality shortcake cookies, two 3 ounce bars of Scharffen Berger semi-sweet 62% cacao chocolate, and an hourglass-shaped, no-slip-grip OXO double jigger measure. Standing tall at the back of this impressive display was a one-liter bottle of Rumple Minze Peppermint Schnapps.

"Wow," Neal said quietly. This was quite a basket. A string around the neck of liqueur bottle held a small index card. The side that faced him read _Hot Chocolate with Peppermint Schnapps – Instructions_. Presumably the recipe was on the back. And tucked between the jigger measure and the chocolate bars was a bit of folded card stock that said simply, _Neal_.

He took out his pocketknife and cut a precise slit in the plastic to retrieve the card without messing anything up, and he flopped down in his chair to open it. The handwriting was neatly lined up, if a little shaky.

_Rick thinks this is a terrible idea and a waste of money. I don't. Thank you for everything, from the bottom of my heart._

_The thermos is for your finished product. But if you have time to sit down with a cup, don't forget the whipped cream and the chocolate shavings._

_Stay warm,_

_Shannon Gregory._

Neal tucked the card into his pants pocket, gently set the basket on the floor next to his chair, and began to sort through the mortgage fraud cases on his desk with a small smile. The day was gray and freezing and he had way too much paperwork to do, but suddenly everything felt a little less impossible.

_The End_

**A/N: This has been an awesome run, made all the better by you readers! *hugs everyone* I really enjoyed borrowing these characters for a time, but I cannot wait for June! *passes a round of cookies and peppermint schnapps* :)**

**Also, I found out that this was the final beta to be done by Kiki Cabou, and honestly, she did an amazing job. I know I already said this in the first chapter notes, but she truly did. FFN will miss her! **


End file.
